Longing for peace.

March 5, 2013

Despair does not come at us like rain, a drop and a drop and a drop, or a tear along the face – but rather, as a deluge. It eats up what seems like sanctuary, and it comes out in sobs, or in the feeling that not one more minute can be tolerated. Not like this.

It is: the grief that cannot find an end – this thieving pool seems bottomless, without walls, and no amount of time spent in cars, pulled over on the side of the road crying, or lying in bed, choked by a pillow, can fill that pool. It is having regret with no path to meet it and introduce relief, no way to blur the choices and wish they had been different. There is a relentless pain inside regret that surely must puncture and destroy the heart, if allowed to continue. It is the hurt of not being able to fix something. One must live with it. Without let up.

Where is the indomitable spirit? The uprising of the soul that doesn’t allow for this doubling over, this giving in to raw despair, its rotten vines and tentacles, its tiny view of life. Where is the phoenix? The ashes are cooling, and still, nothing lifts up to show the way to freedom, to sweeter air. This grief cannot sustain. It must not live on – it’s appetite is immense. Either it goes. Or –

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