No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear

Chapter One

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.

There are moments, most unexpectedly, when something inside me tries to assure me that I don't really mind so much, not so very much, after all. Love is not the whole of a man's life. I was happy before I ever met H. I've plenty of what are called 'resources.' People get over these things. Come, I shan't do so badly. One is ashamed to listen to this voice but it seems for a little to be making out a good case. Then comes a sudden jab of red-hot memory — and all this 'commonsense' vanishes like an ant in the mouth of a furnace.

On the rebound one passes into tears and pathos. Maudlin tears. I almost prefer the moments of agony. These are at least clean and honest. But the bath of self-pity, the wallow, the loathsome sticky-sweet pleasure of indulging it — that disgusts me. And even while I'm doing it I know it leads me to misrepresent H. herself. Give that mood its head and in a few minutes I shall have substituted for the real woman a mere doll to be blubbered over. Thank God the memory of her is still too strong (will it always be too strong?) to let me get away with it. For H. wasn't like that at all. Her mind was lithe and quick and muscular as a leopard. Passion, tenderness, and pain were all equally unable to disarm it. It scented the first whiff of cant or slush; then sprang, and knocked you over before you knew what was happening. How many bubbles of mine she pricked! I soon learned not to talk rot to her unless I did it for the sheer pleasure — and there's another red-hot jab — of being exposed and laughed at. I was never less silly than as H.'s lover.

And no one ever told me about the laziness of grief. Except at my job — where the machine seems to run on much as usual — I loathe the slightest effort. Not only writing but even reading a letter is too much. Even shaving. What does it matter now whether my cheek is rough or smooth? They say an unhappy man wants distractions — something to take him out of himself. Only as a dog-tired man wants an extra blanket on a cold night; he'd rather lie there shivering than get up and find one. It's easy to see why the lonely become untidy, finally, dirty and disgusting.

Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel His claims upon you as an interruption, if you remember yourself and turn to Him with gratitude and praise, you will be — or so it feels — welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become.

- A grief observed. c.s.Lewis-

Change

CHANGE

That scary word.

We love seeing change when we are not the one to change.

We fear change because it’s costly and we humans really are not fond of uncertainty.

Why?

Because we have a lot of attachment to the things we already have and we dont want to lose them.

so is it a matter of attachment to possessions? what about the whole heap of things we don’t possess?

That’s what fear does to ya, it makes you blind.

Do we have a choice?

yes and no...

not really

“Anxiety about the future never profits; we feel no evil until it comes, and when we feel it, no counsel helps; wisdom is either too early or too late”

- Arthur Somers Roche -

If its any comfort..

my hero C.S Lewis once said

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.

Love, makes you vulnerable.

It is like fear is attached to the whole love deal, like two sided coins

But not to love is impossible

So love something that doesn't fade

Then, change is just fun and game after all.

valentines day... great!

Voila! its that time of the year again! joy, pressure, stress, anger, hurt, oh! the diversity of emotions that valentines day bring to us! Gotta love it and you know it!
To all the love birds, to the lonesomes ones, to the forgotten ones and to the hurting ones,,,
I devote this poem. It's suppose to be about a dead person apparently.
No. this is not my undertone cynicism.
C'mmon. Im getting better.
It's just nice..

i carry your heart with me
i carry it in my heart i am never without it
anywhere i go you go,my dear;
and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling

i fear no fate for you are my fate,my sweet
i want no world for beautiful you are my world,my true
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;
which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart i carry it in my heart

-E.E Cummings-

Happy Valentines Day!

Waiting for the Distant Sun

Cold floor, lying idle

I see you.

I stroke your hair and offer my cuddle.

Too fond of yourself, too precious to lose

Overly ambitous heart often leads you to woe.

There and there my beautiful self

See my effort to count them as loss

Indeed they are lost to me.

For I have been taught to know better

and I have been taught to want better

The repetitive exercise of surrender

is the least I can do.

Whatever gain I had, they are to be yours

Dancing shadows, swirling vine

Enough to resist without knowing the cause.

So I spin in my yellow dress

My arms held open wide

I laugh, I look up and I see you

in the land behind the moon.

- Lois O -