Dripping

Dripping

Drip.

Something inside me rings hollow. For the last 2 months I’ve been thinking, a lot.

Drip.

But that thinking has led to nowhere, and to the same place again and again.

Drip. Drip.

I’ve been dreaming, a lot. But I always wake up and come to the realization that everything is different now.

Drip.

I’ve been wracking my brain for something to write about, besides the painfully obvious series of events that I know led to this whirlpool of depression.

Instead, I hear silence. Quiet. Maybe I choose to.

Drip.

Something inside of me has shut off. And I can’t find any comfort in spilling my guts on to a blank page. The flow is too heavy. The emotions too strong.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

There is so much to say. But this conversation always ends the same way: with my face wet, soaking in tears, sorrow hanging off me like a chandelier.

And I am so tired of the downpour.

I’ve boarded up the windows, locked the door, and settled myself in.

Now I wait for something to change. For time to push me past this moment into something new.

Drip.

But I keep leaking.

 

 

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The Ring that Left Me

The Ring that Left Me

The ring
The ring

You never know what you have until you’ve lost it. Or so the saying goes.

Today I lost the jewel of my ring. It sounds petty I know but, I was left with just the shell. A thin band with an empty heart where a muddy white stone used to sit.

I’ve worn this ring every day of the last four years of my life. It wasn’t worth much. But it had so become a part of me, that I considered it an extension of my ring finger. Without it, I feel naked.

Replacing it would be betrayal. Fixing it would be an insult. The ring was one of kind.

The girl who first chose to wear it was so different than the girl who lost it.

She wore it out of humility. She thought it would help her to remember. Whenever anyone asked her about it, she was forced to tell them the story. And she liked that. Sometimes.

I wore it because it was familiar. I would turn it around so the heart-shaped stone would face my palm. I liked the feel of my thumb against it. A nervous tick, maybe. No one had asked me about it for months. But I remembered the story, even though it felt so faraway.

Today I ran my thumb against it and the ring scratched me. The difference in texture shocked me. Where there had once been a smooth stone, there were three prongs grasping at nothing. Instantly, I knew there was nothing I could do. The stone had left me.

All day, I’ve been filling my head with memories of my ring. I remembered waking up once, in the middle of the night, thinking I had lost it. It was just a dream. But I felt so low.

Now that it’s gone, I think the ring meant more to me then I intended it to.

Have you ever lost something that became a part of you?