The Cue

Grief is an ugly part of our emotions; a red-headed, black sheep stepchild that we’d rather disregard all together in that skeleton closet of nocturnal frights– yet we can’t. Time flows like a script we’re unable to deviate from, playing our part with hesitant perfection, fulfilling the prophecy of encoded traits played out on the stage of this deteriorating world. Somewhere along the line grief takes its cue and shadows the scene in all the horrors we’ve repressed in the sunshine. It bubbles within, slowly at first, gnawing acidly at stomach tissue. It then works its way up towards the esophagus, emotions asphyxiating in their sheer potency; gasping for air your eyes begin tearing, forming that blurry aquatic haze of light streaks that is now your vision. Eventually you start convulsing, some cosmic seamstress is retracting the thread of your cool logic and stoic emotions. At this point your attempting to hold it all together, forming a living tourniquet with your arms to staunch the overflow of feeling cascading through your body. It hurts now. Bad.

The stage, that method actor facade, those witty lines perfectly executed, all fall to naught. Reality hits with tsunami force, knocking you senseless in the brutality of tactility. This haze of nonsense agendas that consume the beehive mind has been effectively exterminated. The dead silence of realization is a sobering boreal wind that scythes through the center of your soul. It’s as though you’ve woken up from a life-long coma only to realize that this is the real world, not that force-fed matrix of euphoria. Pain, that annoying buzz in your ear, can truly be all in encompassing; grief rolls over you in waves. There’s no going back when the veils been lifted; no more sugary innocence in the bliss. Life has scarred, jaded, forever mutated the fiber of your being. What comes next is picking up the pieces and hazarding in continued existence.