On The Other Side Of Grief.

The clock struck 12. Different day same shit. I stare at the chaotic patterns made by the effects of wear and tear on the ceiling. It’s become a nocturnal routine of mine. My eyes flitter from shadow to shadow trying to discern what objects they transform into when daylight beckons. I watch the moon saunter to her reserved spot along the night sky. I have nothing but my thoughts tainted with melancholy by the moon’s pale light for company.

I get up from the bed and go to the mirror. I never recognized what I saw staring back at me. A weary face stares back at me. Its brows have been eroded by the heat of life’s glare. Its pupils are downcast, afraid to hold anything in its irised focus.

A brief spell elapses and the sun launches a sneak attack on the moon.

I haven’t slept a wink. The day threatens to burst the bubble of my solitude with the activities that accompany that wretched sunlight.

It’s amazing how monochrome the world becomes when happiness takes a vacation. I feel trapped in the mid-20s of Hollywood.

Everybody always talks about the infinitesimal sadness that ensues with the onset of grief, but nobody ever told me about the chilling numbness.

Nobody told me about the dead crushing weight of tiredness that would tether itself as an anchor to my soul.

I guess the tiredness comes from trying to not break down every minute, waiting for the storm to pass.

Nothing excites me anymore. I remember a time when the sight of meat would have my stomach breaking a composition that would rival Beethoven. Now, the food tastes black and white. No! Wet dust would be more like it.

My head is quiet for the first time in a while. My thoughts have vanished, and my brain has been run over by grief that has attached itself to my head like sands on a lollipop.

My footsteps are heavy, my posture bent, and my shoulders drooped. I wonder if this is how Atlas feels.

I feel like a loaded gun with the safety switched off. However, I lack the strength to be volatile. My bones whistle a tune of rage but my soul is taking a dip in the pool of inertia.

There is no tunnel, and there is no light here, for this side of grief, lies only bush paths made by the constant trudging of those battered by their sufferings. The lucky few discover these paths and their journey is made easier but never completed.

I always wondered why people never remain the same after grief and finally I knew why. Life broke me but grief bandaged me with the glue of melancholy. As the wounds healed, they left scars of wistfulness that recalled what life was before crossing over to the other side of grief.