The Day Love Cried

It was one of those days where I awoke feeling that something wasn't right. I was experiencing deep feelings, you know those ones that twist your stomach on the inside and give you a pain on the lining of your throat as though it is trying to swallow something harsh. It was a strangeness that is difficult to describe, as though all words are pointless in their desired effect.

I kissed my beautiful children goodbye, and bid a brief farewell to my husband, wondering whether it was 'us' that was the real issue or if I was on the verge of entering a stage in life of complete despair. But even these thoughts did not sit comfortable at my table, appearing as useless friends, mere hangers on looking for some sort of conversation which I was not willing to have.

It was early when I departed from the house, around seven thirty a.m., the only day of the week that I work away from the home, fulfilling my duties as a part-time lecturer at a local University. Although in honesty, this work role is more of a duty to my situation, the financial one, as well as to the combined vision for living that my husband and I nurture. And yet, on this particular day, nothing felt combined at all, more disjointed, shattered, broken into small shards, like a piece of ceramic that has been repeatedly hit with a hammer.

I rode the bus, as I always do, for three quarters of an hour, during which time my eyes felt continually pricked by tears that I refused to shed. I distracted myself by reading the rants and raves of others on my social media channels, but it all appeared to me as being such a huge waste of time, merely the digesting of words being shouted by people whose voices felt the need to say something, anything, just to affirm their own existence.

When I arrived at work the atmosphere in the staff room was jovial – it always is – and I must say that I was relieved to be immersed in it. Tuesday Girl is the nickname that some colleagues call me, with their smiles and twinkling eyes displaying a genuine gladness to see me. Usually my eyes deliver the same message to them, but for some reason it was sadness that called out from within me, a grieving sort of sadness that even the most adept at mind power and affirmative speech cannot conquer. And this caused me to question: Am I heart broken?

There was much laughter and conversation in the classroom. There always is when student's work independently on their written assignments, and this proved to be a welcome relief to me. There is something uplifting about youth, especially late teenage youth, people who are in the transition stage from dependent child to independent young adult, those who are aware of the world albeit not in a way that drags their heart into its black abyss. People of this age are yet to launch themselves into their careers and ideals for living, and so display an innocent enthusiasm that breathes excitement into daily life. At least this is how it appears to me anyway, and what is life but our own observation of it?

Lunchtime came and I knew that I needed to do something different other than sitting in the staff room eating a baked potato with feta cheese salad. I knew that I needed to go to a town centre café to write and contemplate, my heart feeling desperately in need of some answers. And yet, as I walked to the café, to one of my favourite spots by a statue, those tears that I had held back all morning suddenly started to fall. I tried with all of my might to restrain them, but they were more forceful in their expression than was my will in its repression. And as the tears rolled down my face, I started thinking about all of the sadness which millions of people are subjected to every day, as though a thief has entered their home in the middle of the night and kidnapped joy from them; or an emotional terrorist, hell bent on destruction, has detonated a bomb causing one's heart to shatter into oblivion.

Then I thought of mother and where she lay, on the floor grieving for her sight and the life she believed she would be living, her world now a shade of grey with half of it pitch black, her vision ruthlessly destroyed by beliefs that proved to be of detriment to her. As I walked I began to feel her isolation, her soul suffocated beneath its own despair, all hope for living crushed under the fatal weight of misguided Love. And my tears fell even more, the dam I had constructed crumbling away brick by brick.