BEREAVEMENT – A ROOM FOR TWO
– Intro –
Welcome again dear friends and followers!
Today’s post is another short story, in a sense, about bereavement and the potential horrors that come with it. Note: I am not focusing on these horrors in an undermining or demeaning way; rather, I am looking at how the process of grieving can change the way one looks at the world and the beloved.
Whilst investigating this saudade through various details like a psychological portrait of sorts, I am most certainly concerned with snapshots of the moment and things that evoke memories past – things that cannot change, only be moved on from. However, they can most definitely be remembered.
As always, with the writing itself, I insist you kindle over it in your own mind and come to conclusions or truths from your own beliefs and thoughts. I am playing around with present and past tense a lot with this one. For me, it is a reflection on uncertainty.
Note: I wrote this in an almost unfathomable manner and didn’t intend on it to be a lot at all.
BEREAVEMENT – A ROOM FOR TWO
Soft patter on the roof of a cottage. Kindling air; dispersed breath. Glacial eyes in a soft-modelled face.
Hands strung like puppets. Aqua pools flooding the floor.
Her vertebrae shattered by the midnight moon.
His hands lower over her body with tender embrace. Calculated movements, flowing with sequential elegance.
His tendril-like hair combing her protruding cheeks.
She is barren and lifeless as a graveyard shore.
Yet, he always yearns for her gleaming flair, her warmth, her amorous core.
The room is scentless, nothing in the dank and grey-fuelled smoulder.
Nothing moves, nothing changes: all suspended beneath resin for eternity.
Traces fall on the window leaving marks secluded, all-encompassing the frailty of this life.
Her smoky hair arranged on forgotten dreamlands. The rampant damp climbing the wall above.
He thinks this a tomb she acted in before she was born.
Trickles. Trickles and dust falling and spreading across the rotting floorboards like fire and alcohol.
He thinks of watercolour fields they used to wander. The endless time. The lack of concern; concern only for themselves in their delirium, their ineffable ecstasy.
Nested here, nested and wrought in the chains of bones to be in their subterranean nightmare.
So, what are your thoughts on bereavement, grief and lack of meaning in the world? Lack of meaning from death? Or Death as an instance to lack of meaning, or purpose, or a leash to nostalgia?
Don’t be shy!
Any thought or idea is always warmly welcome.
Peace,
Tom.
His Empty Space 