I can’t bring myself to write with substance.
Only tears.
The progression of time is one that is lost on me, and I find myself trying to hold on to it.
I can’t find the right words and it angers me to be flooded with so many things. The overflow of sobbing angers me, yet I am unable to numb myself like I normally do. As I choose to.
Grieving is something that is taken lightly. To move forward as the world continues to spin, we keep going as if things are ok. In spite of things not being ok. All that is left are semblances of what was.
I hold my breath to write as if it stops the overflow. I trapped myself in my closet and stuffed my ears with words. Semblances of feelings and expression. Time capsules of what was synonymous with me.
It is scary to encounter a version of yourself in a different form, a different life, and wish to hold them. It is a different type of pain to know that misunderstanding, and want to extend comfort. It is a different type of humbling to look it in the eyes and have to give hope and encouragement that once was not there.
Revenge turns into a cruel betrayal to test what can I put myself through. An essence untrue became company to keep towards undoing. That is the informal attempt.
