To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.” – T.S. Eliot
Sometimes, there is loneliness.
An unbearable ache in the deepest darkest recesses of your mind and soul and stomach and hair.
The feeling flashes upon you like a punch that knocks all the air from your chest,
When you think of the people that are and aren’t in your life.
You check your phone.
Those who are seem distant, the gap between your understanding and theirs unbridgeable, all meaningful communication impossible, as you are left to tawdry banalities of the commonplace.
Baby on Friday. The reigning fashion of where to like or unlike.
Those who aren’t are missing. Ils te manque.
Sometimes, there is silence.
A deafening quietude that screams above the din of the voices of everyday,
Which you need only to pause and listen for a moment to hear,
Floating a little below the ceiling in a full room, just above everyone’s heads curling around their hair and their words, taking the brittle edge off.
Hear. Stop. Blink once. Eyes widen slightly.
Then the glaze returns, as your head snaps back and you take a sip of your wine/whiskey/juice/arsenic, smiling and nodding politely, before pitching in with a quip struggling to constrain the harsh note of feral fear at the earsplitting crash in your head that leaves its promises vague and unfulfilled.
Sometimes, there is despair.
The empty lookback at the sepia snapshots, triggered by the touched-up ones,
When everything was a beginning,
Every loss had its gain,
The silver often overshadowed the grey,
And perfection was not marred but amplified by the knowledge of its transience.
But then, the grass is usually greener, until crushed, rolled and smoked.
Exhaustion and a bitter laugh at ideals, eyes hot, throat full, hair tingling.
They will never sing to me.
Mostly, then, there is apathy.
A vague will to do anything but what is required. An inability to touch fingers to keys,
Is it time for us to go?
M feels the need to express herself, but is mortified of public vulnerability. With some training, a love for language and many many emotions, she hopes to write much more often than she does.
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