Turmoil

 The day begins and ends with the feeling of loss, a surmountable ache if you please, the only word describing this profound sense of emptiness.

Memories flood in relentlessly, promises left unkept. How did this loss take such a central stage in the recesses of the mind? Sometimes, in the in-between moments of sleep and wakefulness, I find myself transported to a place. It resembles a hospital room: white walls, a shelf brimming with two boxes of medication—one blue, the other white—both adorned with similar-looking fonts on long rectangular boxes. A bed, adorned with a blanket, signals a chill in the air. A window, two or three feet away from the bed, sheds subdued light into the room. An IV fluid runs beside the bed. Do I know him? Is this him? The room exudes an energy that suggests it's not a critical situation.

At times, it's the words exchanged that echo in my mind. Some memories are vividly photographic: his eyes locking with mine, his words still resonating with a tangible reality. My body shudders from the recollection of emotions—pleasure followed by the pain of loss. It's all so real, so captivating.

I'm writing it down to free my mind from the relentless deliberation—does he remember me, us, what we shared, the depth of our connection? And the countless arguments in an attempt to grasp the closeness, the care, the sense of belonging.

I pray that if this is a debt I must repay, then remove its roots from my soul. Tear up the contract of this soul connection. Let me be devoid of this hopelessness. Grant me the courage to live fully and love fully. May our contract be absolved in this reality and all other realities.