To say this has been a hard week is an understatement. Lying in bed, listening to the Beatles song "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" (off the White Album), I am struck by how the song captures grief. Not in the words so much as the sound the guitar makes, and how the strings almost make you cry just hearing them.
I feel as if I am a string that has been plucked dry. I can't cry anymore, or so I think, and then I start bawling again. Just to watch the news and see the faces of the victims makes me ache deep inside. My heart feels bruised. No wait, beaten is a better word.
The saying "there are no words" is a cliche but it is true. How do you capture the immeasurable grief we are all feeling as a country, as a people? It almost feels like we have turned a corner and the worst is yet to come. I try to remain an optimist but it is hard.
I am so damn angry at the shooter and the damn horror of it all. I keep reminding myself that there is joy left, but I can't seem to find it right now. I just can't. These thoughts are ugly I know.
Maybe I am not a writer here, but a mere ranter. The poet in me is lost.
But maybe, we are not meant to feel better in times like these. Maybe all we are meant to feel in times like these is pain and sadness.
Dear reader, I wish I could make you feel better. That I could find meaning in it all. That I could write a beautiful blog that could heal us all.
Instead, all I have to end with is this: please forgive me, but I feel as if my pen is crying.
It's hard to write or talk or even think when your chest feels like it is being crushed. This is a very hard week for anyone who has a heart or a brain or both.
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