THE WORST KIND

... I went: skipping, hopping , running and rolling. I was heart broken and trying to ignore the business of the burning bushes within my own settlements, the dormant seeds lay scattered upon my lands ready for me to reap them and burry them into the ground. I wanted to be buried in the ground. I could hear the wailing of the lonely winds brushing against nothing but the earth searching for the lost leaves and branches. There were no standing trees left in my garden, just dispersed pips and among them the ashes of what was.

I loved him. We are separate now, like rock and water, stick and sand. I was never again to feel the touch of his hand. Restless and wounded, I scurried from one to another hoping they would free me from the ashes and my eroded heart. I dreamt a new love would spring forth and give birth to a beautiful garden, but I woke up not still in my ashy bare garden but a place much worse. I found myself living the life of a rogue. I was dangerously wanton in my ways and so very venomously uninhibited.

I didn’t want to face the remains of what was, I simply didn’t want to feel. A broken heart is one of the worst kinds of reality. Every day I switched off an emotion, anything that could penetrate my heart or conscience. I slid away into an emotional reality that just wasn’t me. I turned my back on who I was, partly because I thought he made up most of me.

...

I grew weary but could not sleep. The intensity of the sharp turns my life was taking forced me to be awake during most hours of the day if not all. I would sleep for as little as two to three hours a day before hearing the persistent knock of my conscience, I couldn’t face her. I was not strong enough. After all what was I to say? … I swallowed my unacknowledged tears. ..