I have been staring at this blank page trying to figure out where to start. So many thoughts, so much confusion, so much pain. They say time heals all, yet I am still waiting. I can try to cover and mask the pain with comfort from others or materialistic things, but the hole remains and I keep falling in. The shock has worn off and I realize that I am alone. A missing half to the whole, a missing ear for the words, and an absent mind for the thoughts. Alone. Silent. Lost. Betrayed.
Once held "prized" abilities and talents have been overcome by survival mode. My brain fights to survive, my limbs are numb, and my fingers tingle allowing my heart to pull more blood from a broken heart to heal a starving mind. Scattered. How can one human being look into the windows to the soul of another human being and speak with deceit so easily and so cold.
Dreams don't help either. Most say they prefer peaceful and joyful dreams. Not me. Bring on the nightmares, they are easier to accept. In the midst of waking from a "happy" dream, there is a moment when your heart is full once more and the pain it felt was all just a dream. But that is the problem. It was just a dream. When I sleep, the love is still real and he is still there. But when I awake, the love was a lie and he is gone. Still gone. So bring on the nightmares and bring on the pain. The pain feels more real that the happiness that once was.
These thoughts are scattered, my mind is fuzzy, my head hurts, and my heart aches. I don't know how to think, but I still do. I don't want to move, but I still do. I have forgotten how to feel, yet I still do. Love is all around me, but I am stationary. I am still. I feel, but only physical. I feel this pen, I feel this paper, but I cannot feel the love. There is a void, an absence, and an emptiness that I can't fill.
Objects of the world are lucky. They have mass. They take up space. They are full. Yet, they don't know any different. And we still love them, we long for them, these things that make our existence just a little more comforting. These earthly objects consume us, they comfort us. But this comfort is temporary.
The soul of a human is a fragile thing. The soul longs for love, comfort, and fullness. For a purpose. A purpose that finally makes sense when reciprocated unto by another. What happens to a damaged object? It can be fixed or repaired with ease. How about a damaged soul? A soul that has been shaken and beaten to the very fiber of it's metaphorical existence. Damaged beyond repair. Beyond purity. Caused not by itself, but by another soul.
Why do we have two hands? Perhaps one to cover our heart and another to hold the heart and soul of another. A tight, firm grasp held out at arms length. So easy to crush, so easy to break, and even easier to drop. So tempting to hold tighter, to feel the heartbeat, to feel the life. To become satisfied to possess such power, such control.
But God wouldn't allow this. For we are all our own. Our will is our own. The will to trust, the will to love, and the will to give up your own soul to make that of another just a little bit better, a little bit brighter. To make a burden a little easier to bear. But we make mistakes. Mistakes that leave your pure and loving soul black. To suffocate. To drain. There were signs but, it was too late. So you spin, you fall, and you crash. No deep breaths without stale air. You feel crowded in an empty space. Theres no trust, just plain words. No meaning, just letters. No one. Just you. Silent, yet still so loud.
