This is not art.
This is not art.
This is no life but mine.
You'd look outside the window and still there was nothing. Aching, throbbing and all there ever was in between. How ironic the world has become. The images flicker before my screen. Like fireflies. Little fireflies. Perhaps the only pain I’ll ever understand because it visits often.
Here I am. Watching it happen for the seven hundredth time. The blackness that came before the sudden wash of water. It shall purge the earth. So it did.
You could see the mothers clutch their hearts in anguish. Fathers stock still, staring out into what was once theirs. I stare out into the screen not realizing the wetness on my face. On my cheeks. On my lips, down my chin. It falls on my skirt. Big fat raindrops from my eyes. Perfect wet little circles on my clothes. That was fine though. That was fine. I clutch my chest as well and can no longer breathe. What is there to breathe for?
Hung head. Hung low.
Floating debris. That’s all he is now. An arm. A leg. Some pain. A shoe. A bit of cloth. A toy boat. More pain.
You would think it would get easier. After watching friend after friend perish, you would think it gets easier. It does not. Because it’s a different person each time.

Still, the screen flickers. The death tolls rise. My selfishness is overbearing. I care only about what I’d lost. What I’d lost for good.

Then it goes blank and I’m in anguish again. Just static again. They don’t talk about it anymore. Not in front of me.

So maybe it’s okay to cry. Okay to let it all out as they say. But not like this.

I look outside my window and still there is nothing. Aching, throbbing and all there ever was in between. How perfect the world has become.