Some plans that fall through were to have been the meaning of a life.
For these, there is no back-up plan, no consolation. Re-invented, re-configured, restored time and again to maintain the meaning that hinges on it, such a plan dies a wretched death, protracted and searing, until finally it is simply, shockingly gone.
No phoenix rises from its ashes. A life becomes less-than, diminished for eternity, for someone’s having tried so hard and failed, having flogged themselves so mercilessly, so constantly, so… damned… long.
For the torment of having such meaninglessness at the core of one’s life there are no reparations, or protestations, no confessionals toward redemption.
Situated in a wordless, limbic core, this preternatural sadness cannot be spoken, or written, or casually blogged-about. There are no songs, poems, paintings.
This was it.
This is grief.
There is a connection between the gut and the lower eyelids, whereby the gut, moved by some emotional force, pulls across the bottoms of the lids (at the rim of the eye), creating an appearance of tension that paradoxically softens the look.
Suspended in that tension, a single tear brims one eye, a tear neither dropped nor re-absorbed.
Refuse again to speak.
Retain those words that, brimming your heart, have hung so long, so low, that even you cannot with certainty declare them words, or thoughts, or there at all.
Or say it – just say it – “I was not loved.”
Let the tear drop.
Gossamer Universe 2017: Photo 2014 at Ravello Italy. All rights reserved.