On losing the living.

Written today from 9:15pm-9:30pm, taken from a journal.


Losing is losing, for the most part. But losing a significant piece to your everyday life, is a dull and dry hit upon your ribcage, which shakes the heart about like an earthquake. It feels like having the air sucked out of you, and losing your soul in the process. There's a difference between losing the dead (people who die), and losing the living (never seeing someone again). At least by losing the dead you can reach them, and tell them exactly what you want. But when you lose the living, there's a grand impotence. You can't reach them. They can lose themselves away from you, and there will never be a grave you can cry on. Their graves are only in our imagination. Our tears will be cried deep within us, somewhere near the soul. But there will never be closure for the hole they leave us with, that leaves us looking like swiss cheese.
Impotence and sorrow. That's all they leave behind. And why do they leave? Because their lives, their goals, their dreams, and their plans do not include us? They're quick to leave us behind, weeping and screaming out to them.
Do we mean so little to them? Were our footsteps in their lives that light, that we left none? Did our stains not soak enough? Did our love not love enough? Was our presence not felt enough? Where did we go wrong? Was a wrong turn made somewhere that friendship was meant to be lightly taken? I don't know a lot, as I have no graves to cry on. I weep to the wind, in hopes that it will reach them, somehow, somewhere, wherever they are.
We're left, united by a moon and the air that is shared with the rest of the world. And that is no comfort for me, since those are the same things that unite them to everyone else. So I, painfully, come to consider he fact that I guess I am also, "everyone else."