But the Crying

Peace

     All over, but the crying. When the feeling sinks in. When the emotions come up. When life starts to live, all at once, in her bones. In her mind. Through her heart. And back again. Every feeling - every thought - every upending emotion binds her, breaks her, and berates her.

     Until it's all over. But the crying.

                                        Again.

     Salt-tracked stains and puffy eyes. Blood-shot, bleary, self-told lies. When the crying starts, there's one of two things - there's the lies she tells herself, to make it go away, and there's the days spent crying, wasting away.

     All the heat of life comes to burn her at the stake, all the storms of living come to tear her away, and every ounce of pain and hurt and trial breaks in all at once to shatter her resolve. To end her.

     But it's not over today.

                    Not this time.

                                   Not yet; not here; not now.

     That's her one choice this time. That's her one decision. That's her one resolve for now, and it stands as firm as it can. In spite of everything. Really,

                                             she's made it this far.

                                                         Really,
  
                                             she's come to this point.

     What good would it do her - where would the sense be? - to cut the whole thing short? That end, that finality, is past the point of no return. The end is the end - that decision is final. But will she yet base that final thing on a situation that is - must be - she knows it has to be - temporary?

Comfort

     No, feeling does not follow logic. No, emotion and broken heart, broken mind, broken soul, does not follow the rules. It has no pattern, there is nothing predictable, and it changes and changes and changes with no warning. And no rhyme. And no reason. Reasoning these thoughts - these feelings - away, time and time again, will get tiresome one day. It will feel pointless sometime. There will be a day when it doesn't look worth it anymore. That is what she's preparing for. Facing that day. That time. That moment. Where the outlook is so bleak. Where the weight is so heavy, and the pain so great; where the noise is so loud, and the air is so thin, that she suffocates on the very room she's in.

     Maybe,

             hopefully,

                      fingers all crossed,

                                    when that day comes, she'll have found a breath to hold. A rhythm to set her heart to. A limit to pour her tears out, maybe a place to think about, when she closes her eyes and wards off the idea that it would be better never to think at all anymore. Or ever. Ever. Again.

Hope