In those quiet hours, lying awake and contemplating life; That’s when we remember the good, the bad and the past. We stare at the blank ceiling wondering if we could have made a difference. What if we got home 2 minutes earlier? What if we had been a tad bit nicer? What if we had taken action a little later? Would it have triggered a different - No, - Better, more favorable response from our loved ones? Or was it fate that we ended up like this. Tired, washed up and hurt? To the point where breathing hurts; our chests are tight and on the verge of being crushed. When the hope finally leaves our fingertips, the whispers in our heart die away, the lump in our throats growing larger by the second. Blinking back the tears, we try to swallow our feelings and move past the hurt, to no avail. It only stings worse, trying to leave behind what we love most. “What is the point in living?”, we ask ourselves so often. Unanswered questions, aching hearts and tear-stained sheets is all we get from those few hours. We do not attain anything good from it at all. Yet why do we let ourselves fall into the same state over and over? Maybe it’s some sick obsession. The little undying hope that the grief will disappear the harder we try to look for a cure in our thoughts. Or maybe it’s the fleeting moments of peace that we curl up in, when we comb through our imaginations. Where we were home 2 minutes earlier, where we truly were a tad bit nicer and where we had patiently waited before pouncing. Yeah, I’m pretty sure we found an answer to one question today. Maybe if we lay in the quiet for a few hours more, we’d fine another. Maybe I’m getting better. Maybe the grief is fading. Maybe there is hope. Maybe I’ll get lucky again. Maybe I’ll… Maybe.
