I sit here, waiting and hoping like I do every year, for something to happen, for anything to happen. I have been sitting here for two hours. The thing is, tombstones do not make great headrests so I know I will eventually have to leave, but at this moment I sit here, still as the stones in the graveyard around me while the rain pelts away at me, drowning me in my sorrow and washing the never ending stream of tears from my face.
Three years it has been since she left. One would expect that there would be at least a sense that I had begun to move on, and indeed there is; my daily visits have slowly become weekly then monthly and now yearly, but even still, the devastation still hangs over my head like a pregnant cloud waiting for the slightest touch to burst open and envelope me in a torrent of depression.
It is said that the touch of death can never be truly felt until it reaches for a part of you, and indeed, a part of me is what it has taken. It has taken the one that my 17 year old heart belonged to, and even now my 20 year old mind cannot understand why. Why her? 7 billion other people that it could have taken and she had drawn the shortest straw. It made no sense and the nonsensical manner she left broke my spirit and eventually my mind.
There had been a psychotherapist, there were antidepressants, there were failed attempts to cheer me up until my tantrums had become too difficult to control, then there were psych wards, there were tranquilisers, there were pills, there was a padded room, and then hallucinations. Conscious hallucinations. Ones in which I was aware of the fact that I was hallucinating and in fact welcomed it. Even now as I sit in my padded cell with my head on the tombstone of my love, I feel the rain coming down on my face overlapping the tears and see the graveyard where she was buried. And even though I know these images to be figments, I choose them over the alternative “reality” for what is reality if not the figment created by our five senses? Besides, I know that if I focus, if I blind myself to the realms of other men, I can see her in the distance as she remains walking but not moving towards me, I can see her face, I can see her smile, and heaven knows that for that smile I would give up a thousand sanities…
By Omosivwe Clinton – a GreenBlackTales partner and creative mind. You can follow him on Twitter with the handle @_InGenieUs_