The Fist

I am pretty sure there are no readers of this blog. Which is why I feel free to write out my heart in here. I can quickly lay stuff behind me. Some stuff, not all. I had a buddy once whom this blog is replacing. He would know what to say in these cases I feel like writing. This man was there for me every step of the way. I just wish I could at least have been there at his last.

I cannot say I like it here, where I am at, where I stand in this life. Still so young, still so many years ahead of me. I cling to the little hope I possess; that I will, one day, look back at these words wishing I would not pause my life like this. Stop living. Push the autopilot button. I hope one day I will be able to look back at this, thinking I should not have wasted all this time on her. On this. These thoughts and this feeling. This grief. This fist I refuse to open without her palm in it. Her tiny fingers through mine.

I feel locked up behind my own bars of denial. I like to convince myself that I am no longer in denial. But I still get the air knocked out of me every time I truly realize to my own little self she isn't coming back this time. As a huge rock that hits the bottom of my heart. The long and the sadness doesn't last as long as before. But that doesn't mean it hurts less. I'm angry at myself that I just cannot let her go. Not all of her. As if the heart is calling out to the lost piece in vain.

I have spit so much energy on this by now, so frankly I am exhausted. My heart does not agree with my head. Though I have forced my head to be thinking forward it is as if my heart is desperately looking back over my shoulder. Waiting to see my rainbow follow. There is no rainbow anymore. Only clouds lined in silver. As if to expect the rainbow to take form any second. I know there wont be. At least the part of me which is typing.

I am ready to open my palm. To feel the world in my hand. But I suppose the world wont feel right until the day my heart says it is.