Whispers and Words

I’m floating out here in the great expanse of America, out to sea in the land of plenty.

What remains at the end of our lives, what have we built, contributed, done that fights against the veil of this world.  Sometimes I think we are shoring up our time for the days of our lives where there is no life left to live. And yet we remain.  I do not claim to understand death, or what happens to us after but watching someone pass away before they were ready, broke my spirit. My own fear, not of death, but of not ever living, not making the right choices became twisted up and spotlighted by her death. My own inaccessibility and hiding from those feelings and experiences spun me deep into my own disillusionment.  My own mind seemed poisoned, clouded by a lack of understanding, an inability to deal with death as a natural part of life. For better or worse, some parts of life had been kept away from me. Having been so sensitive that it was/would have been too much for me to deal with but instead I had no real experience with death and so the shadow of it took me too.

I went home, I went inward. I looked out at the world living and breathing and dreaming and could not see myself in any of it. So much space seemed to have grown up overnight that as dawn rose all around the world,  I trailed behind the rays of possibility stuck in the unfairness of that final hug. That last rasped breath, not connecting to the finality of that moment. Not able to be or do what was required of me as a caretaker of a now motherless child, when I myself had never grown up. Never dealt with any of these realities myself. Stuck in the kingdom of youth, where everything is possible and illness, old age, poverty of both soul and body do not exist. A real world Neverland.

Looking to myself for strength and finding not courage, not even rage but rather a giving up, a fear…the whole bottom dropped out and I ran away. Running home, trying to go back in time to recover what I had not experienced. Not learned along the path to maturity, adulthood. A even more mystical term then childhood. Children at least know their job is to dream, adults seem to forget what their hands are for, to make, to do, to create that which their child-self dreams evermore.  I had forgotten.

Sprung from nostalgia she ventured after an unlived past.



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