Breathing has never felt harder. As I duck for cover from the latest onslaught of distractions thrown my way, I realise I haven't had a moment to myself in what seems like forever. I have forgotten what it means to be myself, to gaze in the mirror and imagine a world where my reflection would dance to the rhythm of my beating heart. A radical detox could be the only true remedy, and I am counting the seconds until I can set sail for calmer waters and friendlier seas. I have only so much to give, and in the wake of my dismemberment, I cannot give away something I do not have, and as always, life demands so much more.
To love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you've held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, with your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think: "How can a body withstand this?" Then you hold life like a face between your palms. A plain face. No charming smile. No violet eyes. And you say: "Yes, I will take you. I will love you, I will love you again."
