A Letter to Grief
I enrolled myself in a fight of unknowns. I thought I was ready because the crowd cheered on. Before, I entered the ring to fight. I heard them chant, “You’ve got naught to lose, embrace the chance, let courage infused.” I took my first step of the night. To fight with my first of the fight. I infused the punch with so much zeal. When the one before me landed on my knees I thought I had won, but from behind came the call, A hit unseen made me tumble and fall. Before, I could stand silence was felt. The crowd was no more and my first was gone. I enrolled myself in a fight of unknowns. I thought I was ready, but I took too long.
I was at fault for entering the fight, as I got myself flowed by words that never had a value to be flowed for sure. My first wasn’t there or maybe it was but the chant was a lie I should’ve known that for sure with every second that I had spent preparing myself, hoping for the possibility of the victory that I derived. The buttered-up words weren’t a cheer but a lie because every second that I took, part of me did die.
In the sweet façade, a truth did hide so to find that out I did enter the fight. With every hit, a memory would fall in front of my eyes. So, I thought I was ready to find the truth, but I guess some things are better left unknown. An aid was sent to let myself be withdrawn but a question arose if I should let go or still be of hope. How could I let go when a piece of the first was woven into everything I had pursued?
A challenge of unknowns became the fight of knowns. Looking for answers I took a big fall. It was hard when I wanted to know the things that I wanted. It’s even harder to know the things that I wanted. A cycle went on because the hit was so hard, but I was at fault because I took too long. The need to pull out a reverse before the last card was drawn. The need to keep my first with such a heavy heart and the need to be the observer rather than enter the fight was a need that I just lost when I thought I was ready to be the first.
I enrolled myself in a fight with the first, a first that I lost and the first of every cause, the first of the dawns and the first of my every fall. As I tried to defend myself from any more hits, words were presented as a memory of the first, “half of my problems exist because I dont have teleportation powers.”
Why do we have to be fully broken to be able to get fixed again? Why do we have the urge to bleed out before we get fuelled up again? Why must we be worn out to be able to gain something again? Why must we showcase our wounds to be able to be entitled as a soldier at war? Why should we explode to be asked are you feeling okay or is it a play? Why must we enter the fight, a fight of the lost and the fight of unknowns?
We are as complex as we can get, and we reach a new level every single day. All these rules and queries make us wonder if we are who we really are to the point where we muster up all the parts left in front of us and forcefully make them our own because that’s the way it is. Never really knowing where we stand because being fitted inside a Mold created by unknowns is a dream that we all know. The need to collect more bruises somehow makes us more authentic and plausible. The need to bleed as much to be allocated for a reward that becomes a tattoo making it eligible for the next one.
In the midst of a crowd and in the midst of a sound hailing at us in the corner of our minds, we find ourselves questioning these patterns and cycles of breaking and mending. We are being woven into a tapestry where suffering is the loom, and each thread is of pain which adds to the intracity of the design of our existence. Being weighted on the scale of tears, where the most one is the wisest of all as they are your Armor of pride and strength. Always wondering if there is any other way to evolve or grow without the constant shadow of hurt hanging over us.
“How low can you go and then you move it to the top?”
It’s a song and a dance that we know too well, that between the peaks of joy, we tumble into the valley of despair and guilt making sure we only showcase pain because if word gets out the tattoos will start to fade and we will lose our seat at the table of being the chosen ones. After all this the idea of being in a happy home makes you feel guilty like a hopeless dream.
Hoping to create a home someday that will not ask for more rooms in the garden. It will not ask for more windows to break, and it will not ask for more medals and tattoos. Where there is no roof to begin with and walls aren’t there to be held at. Where the key is known, and the lock is no more. Where the time has no clock, and the fear has no name. Where the crow doesn’t eat the parts of you left and the pain is not displayed.
We play this game in a couple of crowds, where the tears get counted to know who will be the next with the crown. Being scared of happiness knowing it goes away fast makes us miss grief a little more than expected. Plus, the more the grief the more the score. So, we write letters to grief hoping it continues knocking at the door. Hoping we answer it before it gets unheard.
“Dear Grief,
You have been a constant companion although there is still much work to do. I haven’t made it to the crown just yet but if you keep on being a shadow that lingers even in the brightest days, I might finally be eligible and accepted. You have also been there at my worst making me wonder of the ways that I could bleed out more. You are here so often that sometimes I can sense you coming so I just leave the door open. I have grown accustomed to your presence to the point where a peak of light burns through my skin and squeezes me until I can hardly breathe. I sing along to the song that you taught that gives me the strength to lock up the light.
“I hide it in to keep it safe,
From anyone and everyone.
I paste a smile across my face,
To not let anyone know what you know.
I feel the shame and I feel the guilt,
Of doing enough and being useless.
I dance away the feelings inside,
They left a scar behind every time.
They think they know when they see my face,
But don’t be fooled by the poker face.”
Yours loving,
The Solider.
In the echoes of these words, we find ourselves at a crossroads. The fight continues not just in the ring but within the depths of our souls. We question our pursuit of the crown. We dream of peace, yet it remains out of reach and a cruel reminder of what we may never achieve. So, we continue not out of hope but because letting go feels like surrender and we have been conditioned to believe that surrender is the ultimate failure.
But deep down a part of us still enlightens, longing for an end to this fight, for a revive from the constant guilt. But we carry on because we must. Still, the question lingers, haunting every step of the way. Will we ever find a way to heal without breaking first?
