In the darkness of my night, in the brightness of my day.
The new Peter Swanson book starts with one character planning on killing another character by pushing them down the Exorcist steps, and I’m like can’t I catch a fucking break? But I do not want a break from you, and if death is part of that now, then it just is.
I have settled into this feeling, however I’m feeling, not quite numb. Not quite disassociated. Not quite anything really.
Perhaps there is nothing left to feel, except to revisit familiar favorites. The way a cat tucks their head into the curve of your palm. How it feels to see another dawn, after the night has passed, and I am still here for another day.
The worst thing has already happened, I say, and this is true. But is it really strange to discover that hard as it was to lose you, is that the reality of living without you is worse because it simply carries on. There is always another day, and it is always without you.
The start of a new year looms once again. Should I make resolutions? Should I make lists? Should I read a little further to find out what happens next?
How is it another year has come and gone. It could have been yesterday, the morning I woke to find you gone. I know why I detest bright summer days. It’s not rocket science to know that I feel closer to you in the gray.