Driving, I see the narrow road widen and stretch as if
materialising right there and then before me, a path, a direction laid just to
carry me, a world formed anew. There is more road, there is an endless road for
me to travel and there is you, there is you at the end of this endless road.
In the gaps of things there is so much. In the little gaps
of things; a keyhole letting through a flood of light, a universe of darkness. In
the small gaps of things life is gently but surely seeping; in the gaps of
people’s conversations, the words unsaid, the phone calls not made, the
happiness that could have been gained, the misunderstandings that could have
been unravelled, but no.
People don’t get closure, they don’t overcome, they don’t
even move on, they live with holes, like old timber houses, full of holes, termites
and rats. They take pills, they go on holidays, they laugh; loud, sad,
dishonest laughter, they sleep, they eat, all the while a hole grows inside
them.
Darling, words are too clumsy, grief is too vast, too complicated
for the lucidity of language to fathom. Darling, I’ve lived with you a thousand
lives since you’ve left me. I sleep with you every night.
