The body gets confused. There is no blood, no fatal illness. It wants to let go, continue, sleep, eat, smile, bask in the touch of another, welcome the pleasure of their warmth, allow itself to feel wanted, to feel anything but it cannot. It cannot for it is dying from an affliction that flesh, plasma or modern medicine cannot cure, a malady of the spirit.
The heart is hurting. There is no comfort, no peace. It wants to forget, fast forward to weeks from now when the misery has dulled, ignore the loss of all the long-awaited moments it was anticipating, disregard the ache and the emptiness, allow itself to feel numb, to feel nothing but it cannot. It cannot for it has been broken by an agony that no one else’s words, caresses, or affections can mend apart from the one who broke it.
The mind is weary. There is no closure, no clarity. The mind wants to hold on, hear answers to questions that aid in the confusion, understand the purpose of the emotional anguish, prevent the replay of memories and moments that were held precious repeatedly, grasp the defeat and failure and make peace with it, deny what’s happened and discover the means by which to change it, allow itself to feel trusting, to feel hope but it cannot. It cannot for the body is dying, and cannot feel anything.
The body gets confused. There is no blood, no fatal illness. It wants to…