Sometimes pain shatters into fragments of anguished shards, looking around in earnest need, for healing, for answers, for a salve in assurance of time, fleeting or otherwise, passing away, leaving spaces in memory, to be filled with the desired strength of our choice.
Sometimes we walk so deep into a moment, hand in hand with a random or specific thought, that either we, ourselves, or someone else has to yank us out of it somehow, lest the darkness overwhelms, envisioning an essential crumbling of imagined reality.
We say we are troubled, but mostly we invite problems ourselves. Judging, criticising others for their behaviour, cutting a sorry figure for ourselves, we wear grief like a trophy, addicted to this false pedestal, of sympathetic quicksand.
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