A young widowed father opening up about living with loss
Imagine for a moment you’ve been told that when you feel down, walking, let’s say, could take all your troubles away.
One day you find yourself sitting fairly comfortably in a chair when, all of a sudden, a shadow creeps over you.
It’s unfamiliar and disturbing.
You were concentrating on something else entirely until it came along, but now you can only focus on it.
‘It’ feels like nothing, though.
You’ve gone from focusing on something, to being absorbed in nothing.
That nothing is something, though – it’s just that that something is nothing.
The paradoxical thoughts hurt your head, so you try to shake them off.
The overwhelming nothingness has taken away most of the somethings, but there’s a crack in the nothingness letting in a little light.
This faint glow facilitates a moment’s clarity of thinking.
You remember that, for you, walking makes everything better.
You must get out the house right away.
You can’t, though.
You can’t move.
You tell yourself that really you can and then you beat yourself up that it’s more likely that you just can’t be bothered.
But, either way, you can’t.
You just can’t move.
You’ve long understood that shade diminishes light and decreases temperature, but never before have you known it to increase your body weight.
You’ve always recognised that you feel better when the sun shines brightly than when grey clouds fill the sky, but the contrast has never really stopped you from getting on with your day.
Now this darkness incapacitates you.
The shade has acquired a new force that pushes you into the chair that once felt comfortable, but that now feels like nothing.
The darkness keeps you indoors even though, outside, the sky is the most perfect celestial gift of enduring blue.
It must look so beautiful through unshaded eyes.