Every road is winding. Every window is cracked. Every path I seem to
take, doesn’t ever lead me back. I’m disoriented, disillusioned, and
entirely disguised. No one knows me, no one sees me, and unfortunately
no one tries. I’m confused, and falling apart at such a speed that I’ve
lost myself before I even knew the pieces were out of place. I’m a
puzzle, without the edges. The song with a tune that’s not quite right.
Everyone can tell, but by some grace of god, no one cares enough to
listen. The world is strange in this light. Off kilter, and desolate. I
don’t know where I stand, if I’m even standing. Those who were witnesses
to my destruction, have wandered off. Those that loved me, continue to
love me in the eternal sense, but still not the everyday. Love’s an odd
concept here anyway. It’s sarcastic almost, on the edge of being
serious, but not quite. We all feel it, we all make fun of it, but it’s
not quite real to us either. It’s an inside joke, the very core of every
reason that any of us have ever been broken in the first place. Love,
the double bladed sword. Friendship, the dagger to the heart. Each
inflicting a wound that will heal, scab, but never go away. Old flames
will not be stifled. Old friends won’t stop grabbing the attention of my
nerves. I’m been broken. I’m still breaking. And those that cracked me
to begin with haven’t even noticed their impact on my life. That’s what
hurts the most, I think, when so many can walk away without a thought.
When so-called family can forget you. The wounds are all there. And if
my father could see us all today he’d shake his head in remorse. We’ve
fallen apart without him, let ourselves be spread across the country,
soon to be across the world, without a second thought. We are here, we
are there, but none of us are together. It’s strange sometimes to look
back on mere years, and think it only minutes, or on the other extreme,
think it to be centuries. I’ve lost all memory of him, most of it
anyway. His smell has been lost with the smell of the one I love. His
laugh has been caught in the winds of time. And his voice, his voice was
silenced a single month after his passing. I fear he has disappeared
from this world entirely, his mark never making it past his forever
tainted eldest child. I remember him, everything he stood for, but
nothing he actually was. He loved country music, but I’ve forgotten the
tune he used to always hum. He was a fantastic cook, but his recipes
were lost in his jumbled memory those last few years. He was… my father.
He was normal. He was also broken. So maybe that’s what’s living on in
me. His brokenness. His inability to be complete. Always searching,
always failing, always wondering what else this world has to offer. He
wasn’t fantastic, he didn’t change the world. He wasn’t a saint by any
means. But he was a good father. He loved me. And the thing that hurts
the worst is that in my times of trouble, I can’t call on him. On the
days when nothing in the world makes sense he can’t tell me to shut the
hell up and keep going. He’s not here to tell me to stop being a fucking
little girl and just grow up. He’s not here to look me in the eye and
tell me that I can be better, that there are better things in the world
than misery. And I have a feeling that his voice is the only one my
heart and soul answer to. Tell me, where the hell am I supposed to go
when no one else’s words matter, and his are gone?
Forever listening for the words of wisdom that were caught on his last breath.
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