And I can’t.
It rips through me, this feeling, that can’t be contained inside words, or voices, tearing out at the world from within. And I stumble on. Look from left to right as I walk across the road. Right, left and right again. And wondering constantly what I have to gain from checking for clarity. So what if this is the fourth, fifth, sixth day I haven’t checked both ways before crossing the road?
Because I look out at the distance it takes for me to reach the other side and I think of how wide the rift between us now is. And wonder: did Columbus know he’d even reach anything on the other side of the ocean? And when they finally reach the other side of the universe, how will they know? And if there is anything through a black hole, or a mirror, or a rabbit hole, how you would know if you don’t fall down it?
And I look at how far it seems and the days that I have to walk through before I can – and I can’t. And how I used to think I was counting days until I could see you again and now I can – and I can’t. And now I think I’m counting the days until I no longer have days left to count of my own.
And all that’s left is a memory. And all that’s left of a memory learns to fade too. And we will all fade.
So the road seems bleak. So the road seems lonely. So I walk across it with my eyes closed once more. One step from safety or one step from the other side, lingering in the in-between.
And I want to close my eyes but I can’t.
And I want to keep them open and I can’t.
And I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.