Purgatory

The worst thing about any form of loss is that horrible moment when you wake up,

the gut wrenching feeling that strikes when you remember,

and curse all Gods that not one saw fit to answer the prayer to take you.

The relief that slumber brought, that emotional anaesthesia,

that makes you fear both dreams and hope in equal measure.

Where daylight serves only as a marker for another day that you do not have the desire to face,

illuminating the shadows of your past rather than guide you in your future.

You walk on, with painted smile and a bagful of clichés,

where the merest nostalgic marker lays bare your soul to the erosion of pain.

Time does not heal, it simply tortures, Machiavellian in its desire,

to unwind at the slowest of rates and rob your heart of joy.

I loathe that moment, I wish for nothing, as nothing cannot hurt me.

Only the imaginary scenarios that play in your head over and over,

those ‘what ifs’ and the ‘if only’s’ feature in the minds eye, an eye you wish could be struck blind for eternity.

But you rise. You must. This lack of gratitude for another day,

abhorrent to those who cannot see the invisible scars that reopen, that deepen each passing day.

They do not know, they never could, and you hope they never would.

This is your fate and a destiny that you never asked for, a road you’re not strong enough to travel.

So you nod, you laugh, you act. The stage too large and the script unknown.

The days ahead were planned, dates on a calendar that once were beacons of light,

now only mountains you must climb, despair dragging at your feet as you meet each one head on.

There is no succour, there is no balm.

Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, this is Purgatory.

Intelligence is no friend, certainly not.

It allows the eye a palette of colours to paint a portrait that is too rich in detail, too deep in texture and too vivid to gaze upon.

When you reach the end of that day, another you didn’t want to face, only sleep beckons.

With that sleep is the promise of peace, however temporary, before the charade begins again.

You can fix a fracture, and bind a break,

but when your foundation is made of dust and not rock,

nothing you build in the way of defence will stand for long.

So again, that wordless prayer, that selfish request to deities and demigods pours forth silently,

to remain unanswered and ignored.

To fear sleep and life in equal measure is the harshest of fates, the hardest of labours.

When life is over but must go on. to the beat of a drum whose score you would never have written.

It simply is, what it is.