mourir

| to die (verb) | /muʀiʀ/

Have you ever mourned the loss of someone living? Have you ever bent before a sadness whose power brought you to your knees?

They ask if I believe in God. I say, “I bow before my sadness, and its invigorating madness; its presence holds more power than an idol ever could.”

I do not kneel before an altar, but before the page, finding more comfort in words than I ever could in worship. I read, and I weep. And this corner of my room embraces me like the arms of a mother as my mind churns and churns and churns. How will I ever find the words? Brown-eyed Narcissus, why do you write? Because I can no longer listen to those voices in the middle of the night, asking me to review my life’s regrets and questioning all the loyalties that I’ve kept.

Do I dare? Oh, do I dare to taste the moonshine on my lips? And everyday I wake and sigh. And, yes, I do admit I am surprised to feel the sunlight on my thighs. Such a sorrow should not exist unless it’s teaching me to die.

About Gabriella

I'm a twenty-something insomniac with a caffeine addiction and chronic wanderlust. I recently graduated with my M.A. in French, and I've spent the past two years living and working as an English teacher in France. I now work as an English professor at a university in Lille, where my students are learning to never omit the Oxford comma.
This entry was posted in Random and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s