She Was.

I am sitting alone in my almost uncomfortably cold bedroom as I write this. Pipi is sitting on the heater continuing her daily eyeball war with the pigeons and trying to stay warm at the same time. Rain is falling outside and the sky is grey. It’s quiet today. I’ve been reading the words of others and the taste of sadness and heartbreak is acrid on my tongue. Even at it’s most despairing, I am grateful for the sense of interconnectedness that this life sometimes brings. It’s the only good I can find in the slap in the face reminder of the tragedy that exists in the lives of others. I’m thinking about all the time I spend wondering why I can’t just be whole, about all the time I spend thinking about why I can’t be comprised of something other, something better, than my own back story. And I am reminded, once again, that I am no different to anyone else. The heaviness I sometimes feel, that weight, is not unique to me. Trite as it may be, I’m thinking that perhaps we are all just plastering the cracks, pulling ourselves up and out of the black, rising above, suppressing down, squinting towards the light trying to blur the darkness at the corners of our vision. Right now I’m wondering at the fucking courage it takes to wake up to the day after, the courage it takes to allow yourself to laugh again or even to smile. After all, it really isn’t life that goes on, it is each of us. We each go on. We each endure. Every conversation that I have had lately, and everything that I have read, has led me to think that not one of us is as alone as we each think we are.