Widowed Without A Manual

Some of us grieve longer then others. I will not be rushed out of my love, that still inhabits my heart.

My Days are Repeats

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Another day is upon me.

I sit, here, at this screen. The sun lighting the horizontal window that occupies the upper half of the wall. Vertical blinds dissect the view like cut on paper. For a second I think of the possibilities of this day. Then as quickly as it came it goes and becomes a rerun of all these days before. Days where I am full of shoulds  that end up as have nots. I feel my mind rushing the day so it will land at 5pm. when I can watch The Gilmour Girls my new favourite show. Then I can run to bed where I am surrounded by feathered things and I can sleep again. But the mornings come too soon and I am here again. 

When I sleep I don’t have to think of packing. I don’t have to think of where I will live or how I will pay for rent. I don’t have to think about the show that I have been working on that is not going to happen because he says it must have been a misunderstanding. The show was my anchor to sanity and life. I focused on it like I focused on caring for B. 

I know! I know! I know! I sound like my sisters! 

I know I should just find another venue.

I know I should just polish my bronzes.

I know I should just finish my paintings.

I know I should pack his clothes and ……………………………

I can’t. His runners still sit on the floor. His photos are multiplying in frames.

I can only write here for no one hears or judges.

A friend said she does not understand people who blog. The way they pour out feelings that should remain private. But I am one of those people! I am one of those bloggers that feels some sort of need to speak to strangers, or the open world out there where no one knows us. Are strangers more sympathetic? No. With family and friends they know us and think that they are helping by telling us what to do. They worry about us and that is what makes us go to blog I think. Strangers don’t have personal interest. Strangers don’t know what our eyes look like when they are filled with pain. Such pain that meds don’t even help. They do keep us from crossing the line perhaps. I want to be taken care of and be able to sleep for another year. I know if I sleep my mind will defragment itself and I will be better. I feel ashamed. Odd. How odd to feel shame for feeling like this. How odd.

 

 

 

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Author: ilovecloudstoo

I live in Canada thought I was not born here. Newfoundland is where my heart breathes. Primarily I am a visual artist, welded and or cast bronze sculptures. Sylvia Plath may have been the seed planted in me that is creating poetry. Since then I have read so many great modern poets work. Art is my sustaining business poetry sustains my soul.

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