Here’s proof that I loved…
There are pages in my diary that I wish to tear, their words dawdle on my tongue so sourly. The melancholy that parches them has been a friend, but there are days I wonder if it makes a foe.
It is like living so fervently in pain that you don’t know life deprived of, you want to au fait with the other side of the spectrum but it’s treacherous. But people learn to live with their loads, and so I carry mine stoutly on my back.
I hold my grief so dearly, I hug, smile, and cry with her. Of course, I don’t know why she’s here, but then again, she knows me better than any of you here.
She claws into my skin and reminds me that there is no growth without woe, and that this is the curse of being, and everyone is fraught with it. So, I ponder if it all has meaning, the philosophers have contended that existence is meaningless and the poets have shunned the hollowness with love. They say it is all life bears, love, and the lack of it, and despite my awareness, I can never seem to grasp it.
This diary is proof, worn and old, like the bulwark of my core. I have loved and lost and gained nothing at all. At the end of the world sits my grief, my only friend who promises to bid me when the sun loses its spin. She says I can have everything I want, but there is a price to pay so, I take my sanity to the bank.
Why does the emptiness have to escort the love? Why does grief have to accompany happiness? Why can’t they peddle me one without the promise of the other?
And I deduce in these pages, that living is a bargain and you simply choose what to trade. There are a few who think that they will escape, with gold and rum, and the consent of the world. But it is amusing and shallow because nothing escapes under the sun.
I scowl as I take my bill.
My grief consoles me, that someday it will all make sense. The price is not too steep, at least not yet, she comforts me. She buries her head in the crook of my neck, and I wish to ask the question that has been nagging me all night long. What I would give for her to tell me what she did to her sister, ‘happiness’? I wonder if I will meet her again. But I’m tentative to ask for I contemplate her answer, that the only way I will see happiness is through the old pages of this book.
So, I put it away and hope the urge fades.
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