Love letters are easy to write, except when you have to write on to yourself. The words do not come as easily. But when they come, they come hard and fast and raw and broken and fragmented and panting for breath. Like the way we cried on Saturday night. Drunk and bitterly heartbroken about a past that could never be any different. A yearning for things that weren’t. Us humans are strange beings.
Mourning and grieving the loss of our imagined lives, shadows and ghosts. Whispers and unspoken words that flow on ethereal waves of never could be. Grieving happens in different ways for different people; there is no right way. The blisters of pushing way past the point of reason, lunging over the edge and rushing into delirium. Words have power. Silence is deadly.
The words must keep coming. The healing only comes once the words unlock rusted gates and flow through the emotional debris. The words both build and resist; they have to. The planning just needs to be more careful of what needs to come in, and what needs to be released…
The ebb and flow. The fire and flames that constitute life and joy, and pain and passion, and disappointment and letting go, and accepting and receiving, and being gifted by the world.