To the core

The planet goes on spinning, revolving, soaring into nothingness. As it soars, a gentle, unrelenting pull draws it in. But the velocity of it travelling into nothingness keeps it at a constant distance from this pull.
The planet keeps on turning.

The planet, populated, peaceful, luscious and fruitful, keeps on going. The population, plodding through the daily necessity of chores. The business of survival. The business of living.
The planet keeps on turning.

However the population once was years ago, now it faces a whole new experience. One that it has never seen before. One that they cannot understand. Entirely new. It now faces the unreasonable lack of light. What once was bright, is now engulfed in darkness. The false imitations of light glitter from its surface, draining its life source that would never last the eternity they need to.
The planet keeps on turning.

The populations seems to understand, however, that the planet is kept in course. How, they do not know. But they know that the big ball of bright light that stood in the sky so many ages ago (for time cannot now be kept) no longer exists and has left them.
The planet keeps on turning.

What used to be warm, fertile soil, is now caked in frozen mass. There is no cold - only the absence of heat. And this absence penetrates to the very core of the planet. Slowly, the magma churning begins to chill, slowing its movements and imploding the planet from the inside. The gasses, the minerals that use to nurture the crust, now long gone. Harbored away into nothingness.
The planet keeps on turning.

All of what population knew, is gone. Gone, is the chance to turn the soil. Gone, is the chance reap the harvests of old, the cornucopias of luxury. Now, they eat artificially flavored, artificially heated food. Tasting nothing, but yet surviving.
The planet keeps on turning.

This center, this pull, is filled with nothing. And inside this nothingness, is filled with imaginations, desires, dreams, meteors, planets and other stars. Inside this depth, is all that is considered good and well. But its euphoria for devouring is never satisfied. It gorges, as if there is no tomorrow. Because there isn't tomorrow.
The planet keeps on turning.

This absence of being, emptiness, vacuum; it must have some meaning. But the population cannot understand what it is - only that it is the replacement of what was glorious, warm and bright. They cannot solve it, nor find a way to come to terms with it. They just keep surviving.
And the planet keeps on slowly turning.

Dreams: Wish, a Hope, Reality?

There she was, standing apart on the base of the grassy hill, smiling at me. My face brightens and a legit smile springs up on my face. "Hey Carmody" escapes my mouth, the joy and relief flooding my voice and soul. Quickly my feet take me to her. I lean down to embrace and kiss her but remember that I was contaminated with gluten so it just slides into an embrace, our cheeks brushing. The warmth surrounds my body and nothing can take my happiness away. Nothing can take my girl away. It's a happy reunion. She seems tired, drained - maybe it was me that was tired. We head back to our apartment, small and quaint, but perfect. It was me and her, her and me. What else did I need? We were together again. We lie down on our bed. My arms over and under, protecting her in my embrace.

Such comfort, such joy, of being with her. Even then, in this small, tiny moment, I was at peace. I knew that she loved me and wanted me, so all was well. A knock on the door, a chore to do. I turn back to let her know that I'll be back. She's not there. Must have gotten up to do something. Slowly, I close the door behind me.

I sit up in bed. Everything is dark. My hair, sticking up from the indent in my pillow. Realization downs over me as the sun is coming up over the mountain. I'm all alone. She's not here. The phantoms of the dream world, the illusion of the senses beguiled me. Again. And it's time to get up and get going. But she loves me.

Times like these

I'm sitting in my apartment and I feel alone
It's times like these I wish you were here
I'm looking at my options and none look good
It's times like these I wish you were here

I'm walking home in the pouring rain with no one to talk to.
It's times like these I wish you were here
My hand is empty, the ghost of a feeling is there.
It's times like these I wish it was yours

I'm writing a paper for my Spanish Literature class about Jorge Luis Borges. I was flickering through the different Spanish American authors and trying to find something I connect with. As I was reading through authors, I chose to focus on an Argentine (shocking, right?). As I read a summary of the works that Borges wrote, the first line of The Aleph stuck out to me. It started out with the narrator, Borges, trying to reconcile with the loss of his loved one, Beatriz. Immediately, I chose this story even though it primarily focuses on the scientific fiction aspect of the Aleph of all space being in one space.

Anyways, today I was reading some psychology books about mourning, the loss of a spouse, the difference between widows and widowers and the process of their mourning. Yesterday when I was reading similar things it didn't really have an effect. Today it did. Some days are good. Some, not so much. But what really got to me was the in-depth analysis that famous psychologists have done on the mourning process. Freud was just way too focused on... well, you know. But some others picked up and filled in the holes, like Bowlby. Anyways, as I was reading, I began to identify with random things that I was reading. I began to wonder where I was at in the mourning process. Was I in the process of a healthy mourning? No answers, but I did begin to feel the emptiness. The vacuum. The black hole. A part of me missing. That won't come back.

A pesar de todo, I'm not bad. I'm moving along. Work is fine. School is fine. I'm doing what I need to do. It's just hard trying to deal with everything at once. Anyways, the rant for today.