Spiro, Spero ~ While I breathe, I hope.

A brief departure from my normal literary platform to the introspective. Forgive me.

Some things just hurt.

You can't blame anyone. Not God or man. Or even yourself. There is nothing you could have done better, or worse. No strategy to enact. No emergency cord to pull. You tried everything. You did everything in your power, only to realize you were still powerless.

You sometimes feared that it could be different. Somehow, if you practically killed yourself, you could salvage it. You could fix it. Oh you striving human. So you tried harder. Gave everything, until you nearly broke yourself and dried up. Just so you could say you had done everything possible.

Just so that when it was all over, you could sleep at night.

But still, even at the end of it all, I don't sleep.

I cry, I say her name, I write, I pray. But I don't sleep. Because even in my dreams, I see her. And when I wake up, I see her empty bed beside mine and wished I hadn't. Or just wished that the dream had kept on.

Daisy, my baby, I miss you. You're more than just a dog. You grew up with me. And when I was done, you knew it was time to go. Like Mary Poppins. Or Woody. Or Peter Pan. I miss you and there's nothing to be done.

And my friends on Facebook, my blog followers, I pity all of you. I'm not a raving, obsessive, grief-stricken nutcase.  But I don't know any other way to overcome my grieving but to write.

So I write. And write. And write...and write...write...write...writewritewritewritewritewritewritewritewrite...

Hoping that maybe, just maybe, if I dip this wound in alcohol enough times, if I tough it out long enough, if I just let it burn out the sickness a little longer...

...the pain will eventually stop. It has to. Right? Write. Writewritewritewritewritewritewritewritewritewrite...