Prose time!:) This time, I’m going to show you a piece that I wrote in late October last year after being inspired by an movie I watched (I don’t remember what movie it was…). It’s not a short story, but a piece of emotional prose. In short, it is my interpretation of grief. I’d really like to hear your feedback on the ideas I talk about, and, of course, what your general impressions were of the piece! Thanks for reading!
Grief is not something you can just “deal with.” It hitches in your throat. Spreads its cold fingers over your skin and doesn’t let go. Takes a hold of you that’s so strong, you shake and tremble but can’t get free. Tears are no comfort. All they do is leave you exhausted. All you can do, in the end, is moan and scream until your voice is gone and your heart is cold. Dead in all but reality.
That’s stage 1.
Grief has a way of chilling you so much that you get too numb to feel anything. You become a zombie, going through your life as if it’s all just a routine: meaningless. The only reason you do it is so that, at the end of the day, you can shut yourself off and scream. And no one will care because you have no obligations. You shun everyone close to you because every kind word and every troubled look is either pity or arrogance. You don’t need their help. And they’re arrogant if they think they can understand. Or help.
That’s stage 2.
Grief festers. It rots you from the inside out, discoloring your heart and making your control weak and holey. The best you can manage is a few fake smiles, and endure your life in the hope that you’ll have to lie the fewest times that day. Yesterday you said you were fine six times? Well maybe today it will be four. Eventually, you start believing your own lies. Your mask – your acting – gets so good that it becomes you. You don’t realize it because you think you’re still acting. But now when you get home, you start feeling the pain less and less. You think it’s a result of getting better, but it’s not. You’re getting worse. You’ve stopped trying to get better, and instead have put everything away: in a neat little box in that specific corner of your mind. But you don’t realize it.
That’s stage 3.
There’ll be days when you remember. Days when the knot on the box slips; the weight is crushing. But most days you’ll continue to live your life. Living the act. Believing it. Putting faith in something that’s having the opposite effect on you. Stage 4 never ends. Or when you think it does, the mask is simply replaced with a more intricate one. The mask never dissolves into the blackness. You’re a different person now. The unconscious secret has hidden a small corner of your soul away from everybody that knew you before. You’re not aware enough to know you need to flip the light switch. And nothing is ever the same.
And the sea of black umbrellas continues to sway.