Ouroboros
I’m trapped in a perpetual self-circular Catch-22 world where I strive to remember and talk about happy moments and the positive energy and force that was Adrianna, to ward off the darkness that would otherwise engulf me at her loss, and to celebrate her.
For her boys, for her, for me, for her family and friends, and for others.
I try not to think of her gone but of the life she led, because if I don’t and allow myself to dwell too much on the former, I risk emotional destruction as well as not honoring the latter. I need to be present for the boys, offering them strength as well as a way to celebrate her life and always have her be a part of it.
So I think of her, remembering her joy, her intelligence, her passion, he laughter, her smile, her hopes and dreams.
In doing so, however, I’m reminded of just how much I miss her now and how unfair this all is to her and her boys. I’m reminded of how she lived life and how none of us will get so share that with her in the future. The good memories are swallowed up and replaced with darkness and despair of the future, a horrible ouroboros constantly consuming the good memories as fast or faster than I can remember them in this never-ending Sisyphean battle I find myself in my attempt to make sense of and come to grips with what, apparently, is reality.
(Those Greeks had a word for everything.)
Still, I’ll continue. I have no other real option. Memories of her may be painful, but that’s only because she created such rich, vibrant, long-lasting memories because she wasn’t just a spectator in her life: she was the star.
For her boys, for her, for me, for her family and friends, and for others.
I try not to think of her gone but of the life she led, because if I don’t and allow myself to dwell too much on the former, I risk emotional destruction as well as not honoring the latter. I need to be present for the boys, offering them strength as well as a way to celebrate her life and always have her be a part of it.
So I think of her, remembering her joy, her intelligence, her passion, he laughter, her smile, her hopes and dreams.
In doing so, however, I’m reminded of just how much I miss her now and how unfair this all is to her and her boys. I’m reminded of how she lived life and how none of us will get so share that with her in the future. The good memories are swallowed up and replaced with darkness and despair of the future, a horrible ouroboros constantly consuming the good memories as fast or faster than I can remember them in this never-ending Sisyphean battle I find myself in my attempt to make sense of and come to grips with what, apparently, is reality.
(Those Greeks had a word for everything.)
Still, I’ll continue. I have no other real option. Memories of her may be painful, but that’s only because she created such rich, vibrant, long-lasting memories because she wasn’t just a spectator in her life: she was the star.
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