stretch each line from day to day

They say your life is as sand in an hourglass. I suppose time is like that, each grain passing from one end to another. Slowly perhaps, but unstoppable. I look back at the trail behind me, the grains of sand long emptied out. Yet they stretch before me, behind me, thinning as though they are made of something other than sand. Because the time has passed, and I, I am still here. I look to the list sometimes, the list of reasons to stay, mooring me to life. I took each one and with them wove an anchor, and hoped it would be enough, hoped they would together add another grain to the glass. But what I took to be cords of steel turned out to be of pale threads, already fraying, breaking in my hands, even as I frantically cast more lines upon it to seal the breach. The days linger and dwell within me, and I can’t say how I have remained, clinging to this life by a thread and empty words. Objecting to the cruelty of sentencing me to life.

But still, the pricks of lights from stars in my constellations pierce through the night. Each one, each day, in the revived group called keeping me alive. Just like before, pulling me from week to week with things to look for. Reasons. Reasons. Little things. Big things. Silly selfies. Trips and visits. Reminders and presence. Calls and voice messages. And day to day, the grains fill behind me. I'm still alive. They keep me alive until I can choose life again.

To have friends near is a blessing, but this is not a blessing I have. All those most dear to me are far, too far from me. And yet, though not physically near, they make their presence known in so many other ways, such that still, I am deeply blessed for how beloved I am. But oh I wish, how I wish for the physical. Because I'm still floating, andonly their touch can bring me back.

But I try to list all the things that I can hold onto, like a mantra until I believe them again.

Like you, the one whose heart is entwined with mine, and knows and holds all I am in hands large enough for it.

Like the one who speaks words I need to hear, and I can believe them because he is the one who says them. Because after everything, all the hurt of a thousand years past, after all, he enters into my storm and speaks words I have heard a thousand times, says them with such assurance and of-course-there-be-no-other-truth.

Like the one who loves in word and deed and sends little gifts to bridge the distance between us. Who looks past the external to see my soul, who knows my heart and treasures it.

Like the one who speaks to me of truths I cannot see and cries for me and with me in the genuine way only her tender heart would.

Like the one who has been there in my screaming and my crying when I see nothing but nightmares and fears and rage, and who does not flee, but stays and repeats the mantra of safety until I'm ok, until we're ok, and stays until the shame passes.

I have no ability to love by halves, realising it all the more intimately in recent days. All love I have to give is focused sharply on the few. And as with all things, I will either love with all I am or I will care not a whit, and I do not know how to reside in between such extremes.

I carry the scars of all who have left; I say scars, but to say they have healed would be a lie. They never heal. And I feel it acutely as one of the downsides of feeling too deeply, as anyone who feels too deeply will know.

So I hide myself away because it is easier, and I detach myself from all others I cannot trust, yet hold all the more tightly to the ones who have stayed, and who stay, and stay, and stay.