Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Angel of Grief

A snapshot, that's all I've ever seen of you. After all this time. The epiphany just struck - oh how little I know you, know your past. I appreciate who you are now, at this very moment, without understanding the forces, the ideas, the beliefs that guide you, which have carved you into who you are. It is not perfect understanding, I realise that, but nor is it ignorance.

You've shared all that you've deemed it necessary to share. And I understand. The same works the other way also. You don't understand a lot about me. How could you, when there is so much I do not understand about myself? Life is a journey of self discovery. But the thought strikes me in the heart, that there is so much I am not comfortable with, about myself, about those nearest me. Yet I am helpless to fix it.

While the emotions overwhelm me, uplifting me to the peaks of the highest mountains, and dragging me into the depths of the deepest seas, where I might feel the heat of the earth's core billowing up, I find that I am unsettled. Incredibly so. These are the emotions that no one takes the time to write about in their novels, or in their histories, or their plays. One day, all we shall leave behind are those books, false insights into the human psyche, because they do not tell of these emotions.

They do not describe what it is like to be so envious, that the jealousy resonates throughout your very core.
They do not tell of what it is like to never want to see the sun shine, because it mocks your unhappiness, telling you that it is time to face the world, when all you want to do is crawl beneath the covers, and suffocate in their folds.
They do not speak of the consequences of following intuition, nor the consequences of not following intuition.
They cannot reflect the thoughts that reel through the minds of everyone on occasion, of anger, darkness; Malignancy in its most pure form.

Their stories are all about those who overcome their sufferings, who find the light at the end of the tunnel. They do not speak of those in reality who do not come to the end of the tunnel, who get lost in the darkness along the way. They are false depictions of life, they are false depictions of death, they are false depictions of love, and loss, and suffering, and happiness.

If those who are trusted to leave imprints of our society behind for us cannot complete their task with all the details they should, but do not include, then how can we be expected to understand one another?

Beside you, I am but a scratch in the surface of the dust, while you are an entire well. But like all wells, the shadows down the bottom hide what lies beneath the surface and what you want people to see. Thus when you weep tears of blood from your eyes, no one will know why.

I cannot fear anything more than this. No one should suffer to see those they love in the depths of sorrow without understanding why. I shall try to bind your eyes, but there is nothing more cruel in this world than a fallen angel weeping blood.

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