Where to begin? Where to pick up the pieces to carry on, after an ending? There is a silence, which is a struggle to break through. Who am I to go on about my petty little feelings? My problems seem insignificant in the face of death. But then, what else have I got but my own fleshly experience? Life is for the living, after all, and the only (or most profound, at any rate) way in which those passed away continue to manifest their existence is in how their memory affect our actions in the world. Life is for the living, and I've promised to do my darned best to stay alive. I have hopes and dreams, plans and schemes, seriously meant but allowing enough of the chaos of the world not to be set in stone. Naïve enough to be inspiring, realistic enough to be flexible. But at times like these, when getting out of bed at all feels like the challenge of ages, they'll have to go on the shelf for a while. Survival mode is the name of the game. It is partly intellectual, with dark thoughts circling like hungry carrion, awaiting a weak moment in which to descend. But mostly it is a heaviness that resides in the body. It is a hurdle to get over in order to do things. Everyday things, things of habit, become mountains to scale. Things usually done without thinking requires a great deliberate effort, and things that used to be fun and exciting become chores to be endured. But I won't give up on them. Even when I have to push and drag myself outside I will reach for the salvation of the open air. To move, to breathe, to experience that no matter how heavy the burdens weighing me down, there is peace to be found in the sensual experience of nature. In the depths of physical exhaustion, there is room for a drop of joy to seep in.
Love and sorrow,