Life, Writing

Infinite.

The world falls away. The stars and the moon expand to fill the space that was once taken up by the space of our being. We float. We float and see the galaxies as they shift and meld with the colorfulness of blues and purples against the inky blackness.

They are infinite.

They are infinite and oblivious to our thought and ideas of how it came to be. We have existed; we have passed away to a more ethereal being, yet the universe doesn’t care to wonder in return. Time has no meaning; it passes in a second. An age is only a minute to those who live forever.

We can’t quite grasp it, the finality and infinite and yet we still go on as if it can be succeeded by the mere mortal minds.

We are only one.

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Writing

The Grief in Art.

It’s hard to write about the grief you hold. It consumes you and makes you silent, often. “I will be there for you, if you need it,” people tell you. “I can do anything you want, if you so desire. Just give me a call, and it will be done.” But do they really mean it? Does it really matter? Their hearts may be in the right place, the intentions are clear, but what they say and what they will actually do are often opposite actions.

The darkness closes in around you. People wonder if it’s real or just their imaginations. You are clouded with the waves of emotions that crash against you as you struggle to stay afloat, lost without the anchor of the one you loved.

A few will understand, but sometimes the few are hard to reach. It’s hard to catch them and hold them close.

You pull open the blanket page, hold the notebook close to you. The pen is there, in your hand, as if by magic.

You will write. You will draw. Your thoughts have breached the wall that has kept them in. It doesn’t stop. It will not stop, no more. You keep on writing. The black ink fills the whiteness, a cascading ocean of your creation.

It ebbs and flows and slows down to a stop. The words of your emotion, destruction pools about your feet. You have written your words, your powerful words that released a thousand thoughts. What you really meant to say is now said.

Will you really share it? Will people really know how you think?

Only you will know. Only you have that power. Sharing is hard. Sharing is sacred. Grief can tear you and yours apart.

But at least it’s out. At least it’s written. You don’t have to say anything more because you’re on your way to healing.

You are almost whole.

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Writing

Memories, Anniversaries, Grief, Frustration.

I’m pleased that I had the day off today. At my place of work, our Fridays and Saturdays alternate, so if I work a Friday, I have the Saturday off, then the next weekend I have Friday off but work the Saturday. It’s a nice switch so I don’t have to work all weekend, but I’m particularly glad that I had this Saturday off. Today is October 4th and it’s the one year anniversary of my dad’s death.

It’s kind of hard to imagine that it’s been a year since my dad died. Some days it feels like only yesterday, other times it’s like a million years ago. But every day I think about him and I miss him. He’s supposed to be alive, but for the fluke of human nature that doctors sometimes have and it had the misfortune to pick my dad. I wish it would’ve been somebody else, but no one can go back to alter it in any way.

I’ve realized since then how distant I am towards my dad’s side of the family. We were never particularly close, but now that my dad’s gone the distance has grown even farther. I feel no obligation to keep up with them in any way shape or form. They never made the effort for me in that way, especially now that my dad’s gone where the expectation of them making more of an effort is or should’ve been increased. My dad’s brother and his wife hasn’t come down since last November and I’ve only seen one of my dad’s sisters once since October and all the others I haven’t seen since October and some of those was the first time in five and ten years.

It’s always been this way, this sort of uncloseness if that’s even a word. They don’t particularly want to make an effort to come down to see us and now I don’t want to make any particular effort to see them. Even my favorite uncle and his wife I don’t want to see because they made it pretty obvious they don’t want to drive this far to see us even on a holiday but they expect us to go up and see them for Thanksgiving and Christmas. If they or anybody else wants to come down to see us, then they need to make the effort to come down.

Maybe I’m being a Scrooge, but when you’ve had too many disappointments from certain family members, you don’t expect much from them. The only person I want to see again is my dad, but that would only take a miracle.

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Writing

If I Could Turn Back Time

When you have the option to go anywhere, anytime, right now, it’s hard to decide just one place to go to. I think of all the places I dreamed of going: Australia, New Zealand, Scotland, Romania and I think how wonderful these places would be: the hard, red dirt of the deserts, the lush great mountains, the ancient buildings that age timelessly stuck in the past. But then I think, as much fun as that would be, it wouldn’t be fun because I wouldn’t be able to call home and tell my dad about it.

My dad died almost a year ago. He never got to see me get a new job or watch movies that we used to watch together, among many other things. I still catch myself stowing away things I want to tell my dad only to remember that I can’t tell him about it because he’s not here anymore for me to tell. When I go hiking, I see the vibrant reds, greens, yellows, and browns that make up the hiking trails that we used to walk leisurely down and I feel a pang of sadness; he used to enjoy these things too. When I read a book, he’d ask me what I’m reading and when I’m writing he’d ask me if I was writing a story about him.

I don’t watch Doctor Who, nor do I believe in time machines, but if either one showed up in my living room, so stark and out of place  admist the antiques, I would make them go back in time so that I could see my dad again. I’d take more hikes, watch more movies, go the amusement park often. And knowing what I know now (and even what I suspect about what happened about my dad’s death), I would have my mom and I be more insistent to the doctor’s about my dad’s health that they chose to ignore for a week. Then maybe, just maybe, he’d be around a whole lot longer.

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Writing

Two Months and Counting

Yesterday (December 4) marked the two month anniversary of my dad’s death. I almost forgot about it until last night when I heard my mom and aunt talking about my dad when I realized it. It still feels like it was yesterday sometimes, while other days it feels like it was years. Grieving is normal like that, I suppose.

Christmas is coming up and it’s going to be hard without my dad. Thanksgiving was hard, but it was made better by going over and hanging out with family friends. Why are holidays always so much harder when you’ve lost a loved one? Maybe because it’s the fact that holidays are supposed to be spent with family and loved ones and when you first lose someone, it makes the happiness and joy surrounding the holidays become very, very tainted. I wonder how my mom did it when her dad died when she was only seventeen (or was it eighteen)? As young as I am and horrible as it was for me at the age I am, I can’t imagine losing my dad while I’m still a teen.

I have nothing else to add for right now. What are your plans for the weekend?

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