there is a kind of hope that hurts almost as much as knowing. i call it jagged hope. it’s the tattered, shredded hope that something broken or lost through lack of care might be recovered, even if not fully.
it is, of course, illusory and utterly impossible. it is this knowing underneath the hope itself that makes it tattered and shredded… the claws of your own knowing coming up from below to natter at it and pick it apart until even you cannot say there’s anything left.
i am not going to post the conversation here. i suppose, maybe, i am becoming someone who doesn’t need to archive everything. bit of a shocker for some of you, i know.
suffice to say the things i know are evidenced and the things i hoped are mercifully laying behind the woodshed, bleeding from a perfectly round hole in the forehead.
i feel as if i am going to weep an ocean, but i have not yet shed a single tear. ah. no. there is one. another… hmm. i will end here and go watch the sunrise. there are medicines for the feeling i have right now, and most of them are found in the world, not in a bottle or any of the clever inventions of mind and matter we’ve made.
for what it’s worth, you… you know who you are… if you come here, if you read this… i miss you.