The patio was cold and wet, but he stayed out there anyways, staring out into the woods with his cup of coffee and his dressing gown and all the trappings of civilization, vain and ineffective and helpless against the primeval power embodied in the wood.
What a wood it(more) was! The cyclopean, monolithic redwoods, tall, tall, tall, covering the skies with green leaves and a green-tinted canopy. Life, life in all its glory was trudging along as usual.
As he watched, scanning carefully from tree to tree, he saw rabbits...a doe...numberless birds. The spiders and the unseen insects, and the stars above, still in that transitory phase from very late to very early.
The woods were alive, were life incarnate.
The million-dollar house with its finery, the job, - everything, essentially - that wasn't life. That wasn't nearly close to life.
He stood out there for a long time.
There is something hideously, paralyzingly melancholic in the final realization of the fact that everyone is essentially alone.
Sure, you might find companionship for a time, there might be people or places in which someone could pour their heart into, to cause to feel, but at the very root, he was alone.
Utterly, soul-wrenchingly alone.
The cloudy, overcast sky blew along indifferently.
He made his decision quickly.
The coffee was the first to go, tossed over the bannister. The dressing gown followed it, laid carelessly over a lawn chair.
He ran ran ran, sprinted into that forest like the devil was chasing him.
And when he got to the point where he could run no longer, he collapsed facefirst into the dirt and loam and grinned, grinned as the spiders and the squirrels and the nameless things in the forest swallowed him up, grinned because he was finally no longer alone.(less)
Sometimes I am reminded that I will never be safe, really; things will never be O.K.
It will be something innocent. A thing that shouldn't stand out so much. The square of sky at the faraway end of a highway. White clouds boiling across a whiter sun. Th(more)e way the birds and crickets will suddenly jump out in relief, their creaking voices suddenly meaning something more deadly against the atmospheric static of a quietly whirling, whirling globe. Harbingers inscripted into the innocent day-to-day scheme of things. I am never prepared.
I'll be somewhere, with grocery bags in hand or exiting the library or pulling my bike away from the rack. And something will impress itself on me, making me feel lost. My lungs thick with a feeling like black air.
This feeling of loss, the greatest loss: of having-never-had-will-have. I lose my connection to whatever day-to-day task I am involved in, whatever I am doing that makes me feel like I am floating resolutely upon the surface of things...passing for real. A moment - a minute - one hour...(less)
greatest loss is of dignatity and of childhood....wrong or right it was tor from these hands like it was any other.helpless I flail in the tide that binds logic and sync....*sigh* "as the beast listens to dio and feels sick an real" drunk and painful he battles light and(more) dark...young and a gun lost in sphere. love and grease theres always a piece. (less)
We saw the changes in my mom coming, slowly but inexorably. Her body, her mind, the qualities that defined her had begun to slip away.
She began to repeat herself. Some family members didn’t want to believe it meant something. I knew it did, because I was wit(more)h her all the time. Every time we got in my “new” car, I could expect to hear, “Well, this is sure a great little car”. She was just pleased for me to have purchased it. My little blue Vibe could depend on praise. Every Sunday.
She loved to play Scrabble with us, teams of siblings squabbling good-naturedly. At some point she was just keeping us company, because she couldn’t participate any more. She still loved to be part of it.
The falls were the beginning of her slowdown. It was hard to fight the urge to sit on the couch, become a houseplant, her doctor said. We progressed from walking slowly, to using a cane and then a walker (which she fought all the way), and finally when we couldn’t go out any more I made lunch at home for her.
The day came when she couldn’t get her feet under her. Terms like two-person transfer became part of our vocabulary. As her legs failed her, her mind drifted away to places we couldn’t follow. She didn’t know where she was, a kindness because it wasn’t home.
In the end, we had one gift. She never forgot who we were. Two days before she died, she still waved at me though words had left her. My dad and I fed her, in her strange new home.
Her heart was worn out. On the last day her family encircled her. She slipped away between breaths.(less)