volcano

As always.

Week one, day two.

Time doesn’t flow for me the same way anymore. Everything has changed. I make lists in my head; little numbers. How do you measure grief?

The weekend stretched on endlessly. It took a lot of wine, cigarettes, and two movies at a cinema to survive until Monday. But then again. I’ve aged in the meantime. There’s new gray hair as proof. It’s only been five days — how is that possible? I can hear the seconds clicking; time moving so slowly it’s thick as a pot of hot semolina. It’s been two years since a dinner at Mama Africa; I find myself craving it these days. And I know what’d he say, too.

Slow, and heavy. Absent-minded, ambivalent. Even the slightest smile hurts. And yet — everything is okay. I am okay. It’s just that I’d forgotten what it feels like when no one else is affected as much as you are. The betrayal of that feeling. When you are an island in the middle of the ocean. Must keep swimming. Grief is like the sea. I need to learn to navigate the waves of it just the same. It’s not like before. Nothing is. I am starting from scratch. Back to square one.

You give me miles and miles of mountains
And I’ll ask for the sea*

I miss the sea; I miss the sea because it teaches me. Sleeping in the fresh salty air, under the stars, being awoken by the sun each morning. And the waves of the open sea that are life affirming. In comparison, my days feel like a warm swamp now.

The freedom. But what is freedom without a price to pay?