The sky is dreary gray like me today. Frank Sinatra isn’t helping matters, but I won’t change the CD. Melancholy is meant to be explored, not ignored. I have to dig and poke at it and feel all the sad loneliness it has to offer.
Old, familiar tears push against the back of my eyeballs–they’ve been cried before. I invite them back every so often to seek out the elusive grief that hides in the yet-unexplored crevices of my heart together. It’s not in my soul to waste a shred of perfectly legitimate and uniquely bitter grief.
It’s there, so why not feel it? Neglecting to re-hash heartbreak when the opportunity arises is akin to knowing that there’s an unpaid bill accruing interest–getting bigger every day–and refusing to pay. How about being pregnant and hoping that the growing life inside will go away because you want it to?
It’s all about not-letting go you see. If I let go of the people who have kicked me out of their lives or left me behind, whether by choice or fate, what was the point of my allowing them to get close in the first place?
I ask you.
What is there to hold on to if not the memories of what was? And the torture of imagining what might have been? Best of all is the abject helplessness that lay in the knowledge that none of it will ever be–not a chance in hell. Ever.
I’m not sure this blog/ramble/pity-fest will even be posted. On the other hand, isn’t a blogger entitled to at least one self-indulgent, whiny ramble?
If not, they ought to be. And this is mine.