Every time I think of it, it claws it's way through my heart. It pierces my head. It sends it's horrible message in strong, sharp gashes.
Get out, I tell it. I clutch my chest with my hands and look up at the ceiling. Five blades on the fan. My fingernails are painted. The ceiling is smooth. Anything to distract me. Anything to take away the feeling.
I've never known pain worse. Tears draw to my eyes quicker than a river after the beaver's dam is broken. Tightness in my whole body. Intense longing for instant comfort.
Why does it hurt so much??? Why is it so painful??? Why does the idea of infinite seem so incomprehensible to us? Why couldn't I have just been born a ladybug? My mind wouldn't run as quickly. My thoughts wouldn't be as strong.
I never want to face death. It's shadows will dance around this dimly lit room, and I will be the sun, miles and miles away, caring not one bit. Nevertheless I find myself grieving for something I haven't even yet to really face.
