They sat silently next to each other on the couch. Neither looking at each other, nor looking away. Just fire gazing.
Silences like these always carry a hint of violence. Sometimes the violence of the bloody past, sometimes violence in the bloodless future, but never ever violence from within the bloodied present.
The room echoed with the soundless.
Wordlessly, as if on cue, she went first, and began to weep copiously, her heavy heart leaking through her yes. Her body convulsing through the immense pressure of soaked in grief leaking out.
Minutes and seconds passed, and he neither reached out to comfort her, nor did he withdraw. He just sat there, still in the trance of the fire.
Before long, he was breaking down as well. Weeping, less profusely.. long straight salty tears flowed down his wrinkled cheeks. Viscous water locked in this eternal battle of wanting to rest in the crevices of the wrinkles, but unfortunately always losing the war to the ravages of gravity.
The two of them sat sobbing next to each other, vindicating that they were both truly broken. They had both heard and seen the rupture. Their souls were irreparably damaged. They were both grieving the death.
And yet no one had died. Nothing had been really lost. Everything tangible that they had valued and treasured, was still around and safe for now.
Each of them was still very much alive and breathing. So there was definitely no real death. And yet, they knew that a dying had indeed occurred. The dead ghost of the "us" that had kept them together for long was now in the room as well, released from its bodily confines and confused about its final destination. Without a cartographer, the ghost was lost, now without a home and soon without a destination.
Today was catharsis. It was a shared common mourning, they said in their own heads - speaking to themselves in a lost language.
Meanwhile, the dreaming tree had indeed died. And this was its wake.....
Silences like these always carry a hint of violence. Sometimes the violence of the bloody past, sometimes violence in the bloodless future, but never ever violence from within the bloodied present.
The room echoed with the soundless.
Wordlessly, as if on cue, she went first, and began to weep copiously, her heavy heart leaking through her yes. Her body convulsing through the immense pressure of soaked in grief leaking out.
Minutes and seconds passed, and he neither reached out to comfort her, nor did he withdraw. He just sat there, still in the trance of the fire.
Before long, he was breaking down as well. Weeping, less profusely.. long straight salty tears flowed down his wrinkled cheeks. Viscous water locked in this eternal battle of wanting to rest in the crevices of the wrinkles, but unfortunately always losing the war to the ravages of gravity.
The two of them sat sobbing next to each other, vindicating that they were both truly broken. They had both heard and seen the rupture. Their souls were irreparably damaged. They were both grieving the death.
And yet no one had died. Nothing had been really lost. Everything tangible that they had valued and treasured, was still around and safe for now.
Each of them was still very much alive and breathing. So there was definitely no real death. And yet, they knew that a dying had indeed occurred. The dead ghost of the "us" that had kept them together for long was now in the room as well, released from its bodily confines and confused about its final destination. Without a cartographer, the ghost was lost, now without a home and soon without a destination.
Today was catharsis. It was a shared common mourning, they said in their own heads - speaking to themselves in a lost language.
Meanwhile, the dreaming tree had indeed died. And this was its wake.....
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