The Void

It is interesting to me to see the things that people use to fill their voids. Some people use material things. Some people use other people. Some people turn to drugs and alcohol since the only way they know how to cope is through escape and forgetfulness. Others choose God, and still others choose art.

But can the void ever truly be filled?

Are we whole when we begin?

What if we were created with a void simply for the purpose of giving us a drive for life? Think about it. If we were whole when we started would we have a zest for life? Would we want or need to go out and have all of the experiences that we have? Or would we be content with where were and never inclined to move forward?

What causes a person to choose destructive behavior to fill the void over fulfilling and sustaining things? I'm saying this not literally meaning the psychology behind it, but just in wonder and awe of the fact that four different people can all go through the same experience and yet choose completely different methods of coping.

My Heart is Stone

The overwhelming sadness and desperation that takes takes hold, the urge to just sit and let my tears drain themselves to relieve this burning pressure contained within my eyes; what is it for?

Why, when I feel overcome with grief, do I never have a reason for it? Why this void that cannot be filled?

The yearning to be able to release, to let it all flow from me and take with it this burden that I bear. But then, of course, the moment that I get to myself when I may finally demolish the boundaries of socialization, I cannot.

I try, Oh God, do I try.

My eyes may moisten a touch, but nothing more. Not a single tear drop will be shed. Is it from fear that I hold it all inside? Fear of what? I am alone. There is only me and my thoughts. There is nothing here to judge me, nothing to mock or terrorize. I am finally alone....

This yearning lives in my heart to relieve the emptiness by letting the flood gates loose, breaking down the barred doors and letting my soul free. I want it, I can feel it, the heaving in my chest; and yet, it cannot be touched.

The break walls remain in tact despite the thrashing course of the torrent sea pleading and forcing its way through. The doors remain bolted and barred.

My heart is stone.

It is as if it once were a tree, magnificent and majestic. A beautiful, tall, thriving red wood. Until a simpleton with an axe decided to render it of its beauty for one small sprig, and felled it. The wood now petrified and hard as stone remembers its beauty, its life and vivaciousness, its longing to grow and yearning for further endeavors. 

It is still.

It beats no longer.

My heart is but a mere portrait of what it was and now it has no more than memories. Base, cruel, taunting memories. It shall not be the same. It is forever changed by the actions of one small man with one small axe. Here is your proof that size is of no matter. 

Even the smallest of men with the smallest of tools can make the largest impact on a life, a soul, a raging and fiery beauty of which most men stand in awe. All it takes is one small cut to bleed the whole thing dry. One small cut to bring it to the ground, to have it begging on its knees for what life it has left. Forever hungry, forever thirsty, forever wishing and wallowing, just waiting for the day it might be whole again.

But things will never be as they were.

Empty

That haunting silence of night.

Perpetually echoing the loneliness and solitude confined to an empty room.

An empty bed.

The constant ticking of the clock my only companion. 

The clammy sheets my only warmth.

There was a time the night was filled with music, warm, welcoming.

A time when I was whole.

Before I met any of them that ripped me apart and left with shards of my heart to mount as trophies on their mantels. 

The night used to be my home. 

My solace, my comfort, my peace.

Now only the silence haunts me.

The music has gone, the life, the contentment.

All gone.

Left.

Silence.