I had to blog again. There doesn’t seem to be any choice in this matter. The more I try to dwell far away from it, the more it pulls me down to that exact moment. And it’s not like I have anywhere to turn to now, not the work I’m putting into my reports, not the image of the world that dissolved at those last words, not the people who are not with me right now.
Nowhere to go, nothing for comfort.
If I was Anita Blake or Edward, I would have long packed my gear looking to solve some gruesome cold blooded murder or took a contract to put a bullet in someone’s head and heart. Unfortunately…I’m Edrei…I don’t have the luxury of the cold comfort down the barrel of a loaded gun so bully for me. The only thing that I can do is keep these emotions from overflowing right about now by at least writing it down.
I’ve only had 7 hours of sleep in the past 6 days. I can’t bother to shut my eyes because everytime I do, I see the torn images of a future I wanted. I see the image of her walking away in the arms of another holding the children that was once mine. I see the pain and humiliation of every act of abandonment I have ever had in my life. At least…if I stay awake. I don’t have to see them. I can at least turn my attention to the ceiling.
But even then with eyes open, I can still see it.
It’s like everywhere I turn, there’s the penguin magnet she gave me. There’s the penguins for my mobile phone. There’s her picture sleeping next to me. There’s the letters of a future we PROMISED we’d live by for the rest of our lives. There’s the file we made together…well…she made most of it. I helped pick some stuff for it. There’s the Anita Blake book she bought me as a birthday gift because she knows I love that particular book. There’s the first penguin soft toy she gave me whom we named Sigmund after Anita Blake whom we both love. There’s the jacket I gave her to wear when she had nothing else on.
I can’t even bear to turn on music on Sarah because almost all of it would mean something about both of us. The times we laughed, the times we cried, the times we fell apart, the times we stood by each other. The times when forever was a reality we could both live in. Those words meant everything to us…everything to me.
Now…it’s just another nail for a bleeding heart.
Almost every moment I would ask out why does this have to happen to me. Why do I have to taste heaven if I’m not going to get it in the first place? Why does she have to leave? Why does it have to be now? Why can’t be strong enough to wipe it clean from my mind? How could I be forsaken? How could I be forgotten? How could have been cast aside so easily? How could life have torn us apart? Why would life tear something so perfect apart?
Damn to hell if I know. If I did, I wouldn’t on this plane of existance.
I would be somewhere else.
I try to be angry. I try so hard to be angry because at least I could taste the familiar fire in myself. But I can’t…I can’t be angry at her. As much as true love can only twist to burning hatred. It is not her I am angry with. It is not life which I should be angry with. It has always been with myself, these hands that have torn my own life apart. If I could cut them off…I would. But that won’t change a damn thing except that I would have no hands.
The only thing I can do is watch these hands bleed the works they have done. At least that is a pain I can see on the outside. At least that is something I can understand instead of one that torments me when I close my eyes and every waking moment of my day.
At least that comes close to a cold comfort.
It may not be a gun to someone’s head or a knife to their heart.
But at least it stops me from asking why.
That’s good enough for me to finish my work.
Which is exactly what I’m going to do now.