maxwell april 1, 1996-march 10, 2014
this is an ongoing narrative because it is based in grief and grief like writing is never finished
i know that it hasn't been a month yet but the silence is overwhelming
i almost called to him the other day and i can sometimes still see him in the corner of my eye, i hate the fact that he is now in my periphery...i think that that is the most painful part because i can no longer trust my senses. they fool me and my heart hasn't really caught up with the reality of his gone-ness
grief is just so empty and vast, trackless
i certainly can yell and scream into the void but i know that i won't hear any echo because there is nothing there for the voice to bounce off of...just swirling words that now can only be spoken...brought into a sorry excuse for an existence, in the past tense, in a passive voice tinged with memory
holding him as he took his last breath
i tried to kiss him back to life and i tried to cry him back to me but i can't fight chemistry, the poison injected into his leg, his precious leg with his precious paws that i have kissed 1,000s of times...his eyes open and his cataracts still present, this is more than missing this is trying to figure out the rest of my journey without him. the points between a to b to c to d i hate the geometry of grief, the on-and-on-ness of it all (this learning curve is steep, alone and a capella, silently and horribly plaintive)
i am also learning that grief is selfish, it is big and it is selfish, calling the past back knowing that that is impossible but still doing it anyway through empty gestures by looking at pictures, writing narratives, calling for him in a very quiet apartment, in tri-tones, a recursive dissonance without any resolution
