Delilah | H.S

022

d e l i l a h

"I was suffering the easily foreseeable consequences. Addiction is the hallmark of every infatuation-based love story. It all begins when the object of your adoration bestows upon you a heady, hallucinogenic dose of something you never dared to admit you wanted-an emotional speedball, perhaps, of thunderous love and roiling excitement. Soon you start craving that intense attention, with a hungry obsession of any junkie. When the drug is witheld, you promptly turn sick, crazy, and depleted (not to mention resentful of the dealer who encouraged this addiction in the first place but now refuses to pony up the good stuff anymore-- despite the fact that you know he has it hidden somewhere, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free). Next stage finds you skinny and shaking in a corner, certain only that you would sell your soul or rob your neighbors just to have 'that thing' even one more time. Meanwhile, the object of your adoration has now become repulsed by you. He looks at you like you're someone he's never met before, much less someone he once loved with high passion. The irony is, you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You're a pathetic mess,unrecognizable even to your own eyes. So that's it. You have now reached infatuation's final destination -- the complete and merciless devaluation of self."
-Elizabeth Gilbert

Serene is nature. It is peaceful and it is calm. It is the weathering of the abnormal storms. It is the feeling of the gentle breeze. It is what leaves you hanging at bay as it begins on its own course. Nature is reality. It is the storm and silence. Of life, most of the time.

Storm.

It is the good at argue with the bad. The rain is the fight. The rain is the cry. The rain is the emotion of both. A storm is an argument between the two. Everyone else- those not evolved- cowers. Not wanting to be caught within the cross fire. A storm can also be the visual representation of hardships. It can be the loss of function in one's being. It can the brokenness of one's heart. And soul. It can be the cry of sadness and pain. Or, just a cry. The one of a baby- that shrill scream for comfort. Storm is the struggle. Storm is beyond nature's beauty. It is behind the front. Storm is the ugliness of reality.

Silence.

It is those words wanted to be spoken, but never said. It is the mental debate of one's conscious. It is the battle of want and need. The want being the words on the very edge of your tongue. The words that are of impulse. The words that are never thought through. The need being what should be said. The words that take time. The words that are thought out. And, said. You could say that silence is the battle between right and wrong. Because well, it is. It the warfare to be right. Silence is beyond nature's beauty. It is behind the front. Silence is the ugliness of reality.

My nails dug in the surface of my sweater, fraying it a little. The sleeves held my hands within them as they remain balled up. Not out of anger, or sadness, but frigidity. I felt those things, but the coldness of the air made it is a little less. A little less felt. And remembered.

As I departed from the hospital building and through the slide in doors, I could see the downpour of the rain as it leaked from the dark and dull sky. There was a stillness about. A silence of the night. A silence to the storm.

Every raindrop that fell, seemed to be absorbed by my skin. A quick vanishing happening. As though nature was making up for the moisture that I have lost the past few days. As if thinking that moisture, could be my healer. As if thinking that by giving it to me, it could stop me from releasing the one that I held deep inside.