I live in the pause between the consciousness of the present and the far edge of wishful thinking. Sometimes picking up the thoughts floating on the surface of my mind, only to put them back. Sleeping on disbelief only to wake up finding I've mistaken it for misbelief, realising it is not torment, or even agony, but cruel fate.
Sometimes it feels like I am seeing what I wish to see; I am hearing what I wish to hear―echoing a fugue. It only takes connecting the dots, and an entirely new story unfolds before my eyes. I will fall again for the tricks of time, and I fear there will be no time for rebound.***
The mind speculates: Am I being sucked into the vortex of grief I couldn't process? Penetrating lucidity, in the absence of alertness, waltzes in dreams. Suddenly, everything falls apart like a house of cards, unannounced, I watch everything silently. And hope. Sometime in future, somehow, someday we will meet again. I'll be the same but you won't, yet I will recognize you. And in that moment I'll blink and relive 6,243 days in one tiny second.