Lost. That's what was in there. Grief, sorrow, wordless and unfathomable. Not what I felt this morning, septic, panicked. This was distilled. Niki put her arm around my waist, I put mine around hers. We stood and mourned. I could imagine how Jesus felt, his pity for all of humanity, how impossible it was, how admirable. The painting was Casals, a requiem. My mother and me, Niki ad Yvonne, Paul and Davey and Claire, everybody. How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.
/White Oleander, Janet Fitch
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It sure feels strange reading my older entries.
Strange to be reminded of the forgotten; to almost be able to feel how I felt at those points of time, and to recall feelings/emotions I do not now remember feeling before.
Wasnt reading cos I felt nostalgic. Was actually looking for a non-existent entry haha memory fails me.
It dawned on me that as much as the past is in the past, there's still this fear of history repeating itself. Scenarios of the past in the future gng over and over in my head. & Because the best is in the present, I cant help but wonder if the worst's yet to come.
Last night; this morning.
I actually got a taste of it; how it'd feel to have lost you. Not to any one, or any thing, or even you. Strangely enough, as scary as it was, it comforted me.
Sometimes I really wish we do not need to sleep.
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