Mar. 10th, 2013

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To love is to take one side of the argument and hold it fast, unto death.  To land on one side with both feet....

There is pain you can't think your way out of.  You can't talk it away.  If there was someone to talk to.  You walk.  One foot, the other foot....

You can't metabolize the loss.  It is in the cells of your face, your chest.  Behind the eyes.  In the twists of your gut.  Muscle, sinew, bone.   It is all of you.  When you walk, you propel it forward....

Then it sits with you.  The pain puts its arm over your shoulders.  It is your closest friend, steadfast. 

And at night you can't bear to hear your own breath unaccompanied by another, and underneath the big stillness, like a score, is the roaring cataract of everything being, and being torn away. 

Then.  The pain is lying beside your side.  Does not bother you with the sound, even of breathing. 

That is some heavy shit, huh...?  Getting all poetic on its ass, when what it is, is -

I miss you. 
I really, fucking miss you.

Peter Heller, The Dog Stars


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