Here We Find Ourselves at the End

It is the end. Once again, dear friend.  How many have you had occasion to see?

To what ends have you cried, gasped for breath as though it might be your last, wished upon stars, and when there were no stars, wished that gaping wound in your chest (which felt so real you were certain people would cry out in horror if you went out) would finally wither and die and stop beating just so the pain would end?

And sometimes, for the slightest moment, it does stop.  And that slight reprieve helps to ease the horror, lets the body begin its miraculous healing.

Things begin to reappear, unfocused sound and light, like Ophelia watching the world from her final resting place.

And there is a need for clarity and you look at the world through new eyes.

Re-born with the customary explosion as fresh air and blinding light pour in upon you.
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I must admit there has been something missing from me for the last little bit.  And I am sometimes caught off guard.  I seek it often.  I begin to pat my pockets and when it isn’t there I wonder where I could have left it and look in my purse, under pillows, behind books.  It is like my phone.  I feel a bit lost with it, but don’t really need it.

This angst.

I have carried it around so long.  It was such a comfortable weight. It fit perfectly into my chest cavity, where I’ve kept it well fed, safe, and warm for years.  Its favourite meals were worry, anxiety, and sometimes it grew fat on desserts of tears and hours of petting. Oh, my precious.  I could keep you safe with me in a dark cave forever.

Or so I thought.

But….

It is gone.

Perhaps some other poor fool found it in the dark and carried it away before I could notice.

And here. Here at the end of the year, well, you should see the bemused look upon my face (I do make the best faces.  Even the angst would laugh a bit to see me now) that I can’t find it.

I’ve looked.  Really.  You can look, too, at my collection of broken arrows. I know we all need them sometimes.  The reminders.  These broken arrows don’t pierce anymore, however.  Instead they set a light a blaze by which I am kept warm and may better see my way.

They set my face aglow.  And yours.  And you look so lovely by firelight. It’s no wonder people kiss when the clock strikes midnight.  Who could resist when the flames of the end lick the sky with such delight and the wood creaks and sighs with pleasure at their touch.

And, I know were we expecting resolutions today. But they would like to wait.  I want just one more day, one entire day, to pet my old hurts and memorize them from this angle (staring at them through the blaze, through a looking glass held in my hand while the other tries to sketch them out in words).

They never looked so lovely as they do now.  Far away.