Closure

 

My head is a tombstone, keeping all the memories buried deep down in my conscience. My soul, however, through the sorrow, lights up with fire. A fire that occasionally flickers with escaping memories, then quickly collects itself back and suddenly turns into flame.

You heard it a million times: life does not wait. It goes on. You, shaking, bleeding, tearing apart, never make a difference. Grief would drain any human out. And you are a human too; you seem to forget this all the time.

Would it have been better to never experience it at all? Or was having it "at some point" what truly mattered? Silent pain, were you worth it? Tearing pain, were you worthwhile? I was. I was. I am!

Sorrowful ghosts escape the tombstone. Unlike the day of the dead, they do not receive honor. They are met with showers of salt. Go away. For God’s sake, let me live! Let me live without concern! Yet you know, it is too much to ask.

A part of your journey, they say.  A part of your battle, they say. I know! I acknowledge the pain. I accept it. I sit with it every night. I know it like the back of my hand. Yet isn’t it normal for an often-fragile soul to want to quit?

While I sit with it, it whispers; I am meant to be hard. I am meant to teach you something. I say; I have had enough learning, just stop the pain. The sorrow weighs two-hundred kilos, and I want to be a feather, as light as it could be.

It whispers; sit with me more. Sit with me enough. Just then, you will be a feather. I say; it breaks me to pieces. I thought I sat enough. It whispers, sitting with resistance is not it. Let yourself feel it all. Tear apart! Bleed!

So, I do. I tear apart. I bleed. I am broken to pieces.

And this is how I bled to death.