By Sophie Ann
I stare at the gloomy reflection on my wall: the tired under-eyes growing dark with fatigue and messy hair shoved up in a halfhearted bun, not even attempting to reach on the desk for my brush. Want, desire, need: I’m longing for that one close hug that would lift every cloud that covers my happiness, that one scent of love, that can send me into an uncontrollable high of calm and emotion. I’m longing to feel something other than sadness and the long term effects of grief.
The unbearable effects of grief
Nothing happened. Just the blissful silence of a plane soaring through the sky, just the slow crinkle of my bed sheet. I let my arms go limp, still holding onto the corners I was ruffling. More tears run down my pale cheeks as all the built-up misery bursts out into the open privacy of my bedroom.
No reason, just the constant weight of the melancholy effects of grief, that remain, making every day the same. Every other person had it worse than me? Is that what makes my thoughts so unwanted and repetitive?
I need to pick what I dream and what I make real
To die is too straightforward, too easy, yet full of thought. Every word written in that note has to be a memorable letter that spells out all the things I should have said. But they never would have been understood by the people who I should have trusted to tell.
Disappear in the unknown, run the furthest beach or take a train to somewhere picked from a hat. Just leave, and not be known where or why, or not know yourself where you are going. Forever the unplanned breakdowns and indented walls will stay. But I shall not – I need to pick what I dream and what I make real.
Reproduced with permission, originally posted here