Monday, April 5, 2010
grief and loss
I'm poured in concrete. Every part of me is heavy. My chin is on my knee. I'd swear it's fastened there, I'd swear I can't move it, but I try anyway. What do you know, my neck tilts and my chin lifts off. Not fastened after all. Just heavy.
Last night I dreamed I was dying of cancer. "Why me?" a thousand times. I was so angry and so frightened. I was driving down a dark freeway and I ran my car into a concrete pylon to be finally free from the fear of death.
There is acid in my throat. My mouth is filled with glue. My eyes can't focus. They can, but I can't make them. I can't be bothered.
Everywhere there is stuff.
I am not young anymore. I wasted my youth. Even as it trails off I am still wasting it. I will only ever be older and older. There is grass and long slender limbs and experimentation. There is breaking the rules and slipping away and sly smiles, secrets. And I am outside it, and so far beyond it I will never be inside it. I am grown up.
I will get older and older and then I will die. I will never get any of it back, and I missed all of it. And I spend so much time pining for it I am blind to all the things I am currently missing. Those that I will later miss with as much yearning and loss and grief as for the things I now grieve.