Work Text:
To be worked on as my days progress.
(PLAN:
-> Grief is withiin heart. Metaphorical heart maybe?? '
Wooden flooring ingrained with a bitter chill that leaks in through the door left slightly ajar looks to be a range of brown.
Winter begins with a bitter chill that encompasses my very being, carving indents of ice into the softened marrow of my vulnerable bones. I turn right, signified by the quiet squeal of flesh against leather.)
Oh grief, when you found my heart and called it your home.
It's been 5 months, and now Ta like to announce that this is my rebellion - an announcement of immunity against your eternal plague. Although, to call myself immune is to tell a childish lie - there is no vaccine for you, but I am no longer bedridden. Perhaps you shall flare up again as this naive mind of mine flourishes, absorbing experiences of life, but I shall pray your power recedes, or that I figure how to combat you, because my heart has become vulnerable and I'm afraid the pores you have left will start to leak.
In my fight against grief, I address you, who was innocent. I did not mean to make your absence the embodiment of my grief; for this irredeemable crime I beg for forgiveness. I made you my everything without the plan to lose you, so forgive me as I beg on my knees to fall into the solace of your presence again. To experience the euphoria of being near you. I want to be able reject the phantoms of frustration even when my words fall upon your deaf ears, as I appreciate the mundanity of living. Please explore my heart to your own content, until you overflow with this love I wish to project to you. I hope you find some contentment watching me fumble.
My drifting memories intertwine with outstretched sunlight, this abstract I want to grasp but the golden light that rinses my senses in a mimicry of rain keeps leaking through my grass, dripping down to become morning dew. I beg to be emancipated from these shackles of grief, without violence as if such abominations can be pacified - yet the morning sun rejects this notion of peace.
Perhaps I consider time a thief for extracting you so early - too early that I was so wholly unprepared, but the nine years I'd been gifted were too generous for me to be incandescent towards this primordial being. My rage dissolves in the fountain bred from my tears, your undying image imprinted into the perpetuity of time. A perpetuity neither of us were gifted. But your finity came first as time's reach embraced you in a deceitful hug, and I still dream to see your face in some reality.
I know you were cold as time's embrace found you, but I hope that as you witnessed me get shot through the heart with the bullet of your life you found warmth again. Warmth in knowing I loved you - I want to create something new.
This consciousness I follow - a stream of conscience where reality is only plausible because I can comprehend my own life, is labelled as ‘reality’, but when I dream the laws that bind me to this world are erased, so when I dream I can see you again. I can hug you again. Dreaming is my ignorant bliss which I guiltily indulge in - because a dream to me is your reality now.
This warmth that overcomes me is the pleasure of indulgence and my blissful ignorance. To the prospect of being ignorant, I am ruled guilty. To see you again, any crime will have been worth committing.