The mornings are the worst. The moment you gain consciousness, it all comes flooding back to you. That you are no longer loved. And you immediately sink into such sadness that you lay back in bed, pull the covers up higher, close your eyes tight shut and try to fall asleep again. Because the few hours of sleep you get are the only moments that you are not thinking of love lost. You can be concentrating as hard as you want on the fluffy white sheep, quietly munching on the grass in lush green meadows (I always picture a lake on the edge of the field), but this image is soon enough overcome by one of you laying on the gravel, curled up in the foetal position, howling.
And you sink deeper into bed and depression. What is there to get up for in the morning anymore? There are going to be no more disheveled hair and beard, deep, husky, sleepy voices wishing “good morning”, no furtive glances across a table of 30 people, no hugs stolen quickly so no one can see en route some other place, no walks after dinner, no mimicking of accents, no finishing each others sentences, no stubby hands to hold, no small feet to make fun of. What else is there to wake up for in the morning or get out of bed?
It’s just a long series of images flashing, a montage playing- a handful of wild flowers picked from a hill side, a hand jerked away when you reached out to hold it, lying on wet evening grass ona green expanse showing me the Big Dipper and the LIttle, the Scorpion and a shooting star, and then him showing all this to someone else.
It hurts so much, you close your eyes so tigt that the lids hurt. But these images are not flashing in front of your eyes. They are in your head and you can’t make them go away.
Sometimes I feel strong. I feel that I can get through this just fine. That it’s no big deal. I picturise the parting scene in my mind: we meet, amiably, give back our things, chit-chat about work and friends and then say bye and leave without throwing a parting glance back . And then there are the mornings, when all the reason and logic of the day, your friends telling you you’re so much better anyway, that it’s not your fault, that you will find someone better, the strength all this built up during the day withered away in sleep, and they no longer matter. What does it matter whose fault it was, or who in future would make you happy. All you want to do is run downstairs and hold him tight and say, “Let’s start all over and we will get it right this time.”
But when hearts break, they don’t break even. I had lost a larger part of mine and I don’t have the courage to go out and find it this morning. Not today morning. Today morning I will sleep.