And so, it is four AM and I get up.
I go into the kitchen in search of a bit of peace, hoping to taste the light of a new morning.
It is a feeble light that changes according to my moods, the light that filters through the window and Seems to slam on the kitchen floor.
But here, there is only silence, a silence of tomb that terrifies me.
And the internal dialogue begins by knocking at the door of my regrets. A mind grumbling that never stops between doubt and reflections upon my life.
I want so much to cry. My nonna, told me once that once becoming a woman I wouldn’t cry as much, and I hold back the tears to make her proud of me.
A few days ago I met a woman, Eleanor, she is desperate because she lost her man and she cannot make out a reason for it and she seems to be taking it very hard. She drags on day after day trying to forget, but she cannot. So many lives touched by the inclement hand of destiny.
A friend at work, Paul, lost his wife to a brain tumor three years ago, and now he suffers in silence. At times there is no one to talk to and the sorrow becomes desperation, a mourning that will never be dealt with.
I have bolted from people’s suffering so many times, it scares me, it submerges me, and I have no more roots. There is no space left for sorrow.
I have known sex without love. It is squalid, degrading and it leaves such emptiness, a price to pay for the inability of suffering, a price that fear extols.
I lost my parents early; I lost so much, all the affection all at once. There hasn’t been much afterwards, only constant, incoherent, apathetic, irrational emptiness.
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