If Death Were A Season

Forgetting is easy. Remembering is hard.

Sometimes that is such a shameful loss of life force.
To recall the things you wish you didn’t,
and long for the things you’d rather keep.

To freeze frame a moment–imagine.

To bottle it up and sip it when needed.
When things become heavy.
When slipping into sleep is so much simpler than living
vividly
and rapidly
and engagingly.

I’ve been called out on this by onlookers.
Those who haven’t grasped quite who I am.
That I’m zany and crazy and fun,

but there’s a price to pay for that energy loss.

The flipside.
The quieter side.
I am two people living in one body.

I am Loud and I am Quiet.
And when Loud has had her fun,
she crawls back into Quiet.

Together they nap and contemplate from afar.

Now, I am Quiet.

There’s still a light on,
so I’m not quite in the dark,
but it’s still.

Each movement requires so much more
than I have to give, and so
I move as little as possible.

Sleep is such a lovely friend.

She wraps me up.
She savors me.
She gives me what no one else can give.

Sometimes she is the only one who understands me at all.

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3 thoughts on “If Death Were A Season

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