Your Broken Visage

I awoke screaming this morning. It was a war cry -- Your soul attacking mine. And I was left with more than a faint impression of a dream. I was left with a feeling of anger; an anger so justified it touched the bounds of hatred. You were the object of my despise, and I the object of your betrayal.

Why must we dance, this dance of pain? Piroutte and death may take my place. The scene is one of desolation, the mood full of despair. And we laugh together. Is it that we believe that love can save us from ourselves, or that we know that devastation before us? It is not a joyous moment, but a fragment waiting, wrapped in the facade that is life.

There are no songs left to implore. Our journey comes swiftly to an end. The last battle, last dance, the last time my eyes shall behold all that I find beauteous in the world. I weep for my loss and for my newfound freedom.

All this found in the remnant of an unsettling dream.

. . . . . . . . . .

I feel more guilty than anything now. Guilty about having feelings that are only connected to some innate fear hidden deep within my subconsious. I suppose that we all fear loss of a loved one -- it's something that I've experienced many times over in my short life and it has yet to be pleasant.

I read something, some time ago, that likened a divorcee to being a widow. The article stated that often times the divorcee who still has strong feelings for their spouse has a much more difficult mourning period over their loss, namely because that person is likely to still be present in their life. And this is my cycle. The birth and death of my heart, day after day. And each time this happens, I find it harder and harder to let go of my doubt, to vanquish my fears. I hate doubt. I hate fear. These emotions are so very debilitating for me, and I suppose that I hate the feeling of helplessness more than anything, anything at all.

-d.