Monday, May 31, 2010

Going Nowhere

Blah.

You know, I wish I had it in me to blog the way I used to. I really do. But I don't.

And you know what else? Eight months used to seem like a long time to me.

But now I feel the world moving around me, and I'm standing still. Actually, not really even standing. Crumpled. I'm still as crumpled as I felt when he slipped away from us that day. Maybe more crumpled. I still can't even seem to move past the disbelief. It's still there, as strong as it ever has been... So strong that I still find it easier to deal with things by pushing all of it away, and I constantly feel that sharp breath-stealing pain every time that I can't help but think of him. Which is a lot. I think of him a lot. I miss him more every day. This gets worse every day. It's still getting worse. So maybe I'm not even holding still. Maybe I'm going backwards.

So I suppose this blog, as it is right now, is a pretty accurate depiction of me, as I am right now. At a stand still. Or a slow backwards descent. In a place that only a few people understand or even really care about. And really, they're the only ones I really understand and care about too.

So mostly, I just miss him more every day while the rest of the world goes on about it's business.


And you wanna know one more thing? I don't care. Go on. Go right ahead. You suck anyways. You stupid world. You great big stupid world.

Thursday, May 06, 2010

Going Home



Last night I dreamed about Dad.

In my dream he was really sick, dying, but we were taking him home.

I dreamed we stopped along the way, at this secluded place in the mountains. We climbed up into this huge tree. Bigger than any tree that ever grew anywhere but in dreams. Parts of the trunk were hollowed out, and we sat in one of the hollows way up high in the sky and looked out through the branches and into the sunset. It was very beautiful, and very peaceful. Of course, Dad wanted to go out onto one of the branches, but I don't like heights, so I talked him into staying in the trunk so we could have a hot dog roast. That's what he wanted, to roast some hot dogs. Of course. I was worried it would upset his stomach, but I figured it wouldn't matter since he was so sick and would be gone soon anyways.


I don't remember much else, but I remember building the fire, and him telling me to make sure to pile the wood right so the fire could get air. And I remember holding him up so he could roast his hot dog, one last hot dog for the road. And I remember resting my cheek on his head while I held him up, and the feel of his fuzzy hair against my face.

I miss him so much.