It’s too soon.
Too soon to express, to spill my contents.
We’re not there yet. Wounds still open, I have no perspective, no real sense of what this has cost. I can only theorise, make some wild guess at what psychic toll things might take on me.
How do you feel?
Is that wrong? I feel, and in the aftermath of any upheaval, that is all I can really say.
I have been exhorted to express, to offer an opinion. I have none.
It took me to long to come to the realisation that this feeling, this unavoidable emotional core is resistant to rationalisation. I’m tired, alone and wounded, but there is, within me, the throbbing of this emotion, one so ill-defined it cannot coalesce into thought. I remain at a distance from it, I maintain this ironic discord from my soul.
I daren’t push or probe, I know too well the path before me. My skin is thick with scars, there may be no end for my wont of self-destruction. The scars were a metaphor written in flesh and were I so inclined, I might take that notion too far. I’ve written in the past of repetition. This place is familiar. I have carved this home for myself. Is this progress though? I feel detached, removed. I can place this event in context and come to some understanding separate from the pain.
This is temporary, it will all be subsumed, explained away, rewritten. We’ll both make sense of this predicament, contextualise whatever damage I cannot face.
And of course, I’ll forget.
I’ll forget the ones left behind. The innocents dragged through this failure, through my life. I let them go, for once again, I was the fool to think that more than this was what I’m worth. Another life, and trust betrayed.
Life goes on
It all means nothing in the end.