Memoirs Of Desolation

I drift. My mind is making a solitarily journey from love to loss. Navigating the haze of my existence as I sink beneath the emotions that once put wind in my sails. I inhale. The air is cold and dry, burning my throat with the bitter taste, my heart only knows to well. I have come to terms with my habitual emptiness, yet I clutch at straws for any last fray of emotion. I would rather feel pain than nothing at all. At least with pain, I will not be empty.

 

I am encased by the darkness, as I sit alone, my back resting heavily on the brittle wall. I notice every detail of my body’s movement, but yet struggle to fathom the beating of my lonely heart. Every pulse comes with a burden of great remorse; as if I have stolen it from the one I loved. My eyes swim, as a singular tear travels down my cheek, finding itself lost in the thick fabric of my dressing gown; these are not tears of sadness but oh how I wish they where. These are cries of emptiness, the dregs in the bottom of my bottle of emotion, tipped upside down so not to waste the slightest drop.

 

I push my hand forcefully through the long knotted hair that sits atop my head. I haven’t slept in what feels like years; I can’t sleep, no matter how hard I try. But despite this sleep seems like the only way out, that or death and neither are within the grasp of my feeble mind. And so I must sit here, wait here and live here until I can rid myself from this cycle of desolation, my heart continues to beat but I don’t even know if I’m alive anymore.

Author's Note

I'm thinking of writing a short story about the trials of a fragile man following the death of his girlfriend. Here is the intro, what do you think? Should I carry on?