My thoughts on paper on the time I lost my late boy friend.
|It is winter, December in fact. The time of year when everyone except for me feels ecstatic and festive. Snow white roof tops, almost like the clouds are resting upon the houses. Tall sage green fir trees, so fresh, that the scent lingers throughout the whole of the season. The elements have taken hold and the snow continues to fall, as do the sands of time. Everybody is rejoicing, singing, dancing. And then there is me, observing, eyes like daggers, capable of piercing the thickest of skins. I find myself standing up when everyone else is sitting down. My quickening heart beat tells me I need to get away, to fly away – and fast. I eventually break down the solid brown brick walls of my house. Pacing down my driveway, no slower than the speed of light, trying my best to walk through the untouched parts of the snow, kicking it against my new sheepskin boots to see them change from a drab chestnut to a surprisingly more attractive dark brown. The wind shakes my body, my long charcoal grey mac bashes across the backs of my legs like the exhausted worn out wings of a retired angel. The cold is spine-chilling.
I find my place. The autumn leaves were left frozen by the winter snow, tattooing the floor. I sit, barely visible on the horizon. Torture. Complete unendurable agony. It feels like my heart is being torn out. I cannot breathe. I cannot eat. I cannot sleep. I cannot function. I am certain it is the most severe, fervent intense pain I will ever feel, and the worst part? There is no way to alleviate its inexorable affliction. I know it’s mine for life. I am walking down a long, narrow, dark street; every sound other than my own amplified footsteps is distant. Houses are frowning – they don’t want to be here any more than I do. Am I walking towards something or walking away? I am not afraid; the integrity of my spirit has been destroyed. But I am not afraid; I am a rose that has been crippled by life. Solitude is my condition it is not a problem, it is my reality. I am damaged in predestined ways, I cannot be repaired. I am anticipating the outgrowth of my loneliness.
Each day I apply a mask that knows only to lie, the encouraging thing is that I can take it off; I wish I could remove my real skin; I am now disgusted by the face everybody is used to seeing me in. There is something beautiful about the metaphorical scars that define my body; I know the intolerable pain is over – for now. Hiding my pain is becoming a talent in itself. This pain takes over me. I can not describe it, words are too stiff and definitions always leave something out. How can I explain it to someone who doesn’t already understand?
The unhappiness spread like gas; it contaminates everything. I have become so permeable all essence is a thing of the past. I am suffocated by my own skin. Inside is a formidable soul, yearning to escape the resolute armour that is my bones, working selfishly to keep me bound. My emotions and attitude control me; I am a prisoner in my own body. Any hope of escaping lies within my mind, but without strength, I have nothing. I am not strong enough to rupture the restrictions and be liberated, much like the angel I can only dream of being.
It took a while for me to register. He’s gone, and a part of me went with him. My chest tightened, my throat closed, breathing was a task of its own. Refusing to believe never makes it any easier. The divide is so blatant it’s physical. Denial penetrated my body and oppressed my thoughts like a demon. I still haven’t learnt to cut through the confinement. Everything seems at least ok until this demon returns to remind me of the harsh reality which clouds my life like a hovering shadow day after day, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day. The entity of my devastation leaves me entwining my life and all of its complexities until this feeling within surpasses. And then I can do nothing but try my best to manipulate what has happened in the hope of returning to some form of normality, when this doesn’t work I try to feel nothing, its like being buried alive, I am lonely, but it’s all I have.
Things have appeared to lose their colour. The greens of the grass, the yellows of the sun, the reds of the brick, the whites of smiles and the blue of the sky have dwindled. Everything has turned to a melancholy shade of grey and a persistent gloom never fails to astonish me. Dark thoughts of death and deterioration reside in my mind. I wait to return to the summer days, for everything that has been lost to be once again restored within my thoughts, inner conflicts will be resolved, colours will return, and emotions will regain their initial properties.
Nightfall approaches faster than I would like, yet another thing out of my control and grasp, yet another thing everyone besides me seems to appreciate. Night may not be as final as death, but it is the nearest thing to it. Each night before my lazy eyes commit to sleep, I gaze up at my apple white, expressionless ceiling, it frightens me that my life is as blank as the plaster. All I see is a former life that I am hardly familiar with. Night is the most difficult time of my life, Two a.m. knows my deepest secrets. I am tired of looking for the ‘on’ switch on the machine that is my life. Trapped. Lost. That place I once called home is a place that I do not belong. The place. The people. The faces. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now.