When each day is such a burden, the prospect of a longer life -- which to others might seem a promise -- becomes instead a frightful prospect. It is a sentence, and simply moving is so hard to do. It would be a relief to foresee an end to the obligation to sustain life and to no longer pretend it is as exciting as it may seem through other eyes. It is not that it is devoid of satisfaction. Were that so I would have despaired far sooner. It is the prospect of having to continue where such moments are more the exception, and where in its place emptiness seems to grow.
I get tired of saying, "one more day." Were it only one more I could handle it better, but it is not one and despite the love of those around me it seems so often so very alone. I feel so often I am pretending I understand how others' lives are, that I am visiting in a different world when I am with them, even when they are people about whom I care so very much. For a long time -- as long as I can remember -- life has cycled back to the sadness, with its familiarity and pain.
It is not to be shared, and times I have tried to it was no better and seemed worse in some ways since I was offering it to someone who would be no better for hearing it spoken, nor would that person ever really understand that this is not a passing thing, a moment of sadness that is gotten through or over and then life goes on. They did not really speak the language (which I am grateful to say) and so thought these words had different meanings. But the pain is not to be dismissed and it resists understanding, and most of all it never really goes away.
No comments:
Post a Comment