She kept a red journal tainted with sins and painted with truths. Its pages were imprinted with her bear and naked soul. Its sheets contained sincerities and burned with untold passions. She was certain no one would notice, as there was nothing peculiar about this book. She had no fear of it ending in the wrong hands, and she was pleased to own it. Such confidence and fearlessness ended at the sight of prophetic dreams and visions. She stopped. She stopped filling the lines with what she carried in her heart, with what overcrowded her thoughts. Days went on, and on, until she would finally make room to write. By then she would have already bottled up countless emotions, swallowed her sadness, and wept her frustrations. On a Sunday evening she sat there, writing episodes of the tiny little things she called dents. Dents of emptiness. Dents in her heart
emptiness
Unfilled.
When rain leaks through a roof, a bucket contains its dripping water. Broken ceilings, torn walls, and ripped curtains can be fixed, rebuilt, and sown back together. What happens then when emptiness overtakes you? An emptiness so infinite that it is immeasurable. Emptiness so deeply rooted that you cannot comprehend where it starts or where it ends.
No words can fill a void like this. It’s like pouring high spirits and encouragement into a broken glass—it cannot contain these. Lying in bed throughout the day, forcing yourself to oversleep becomes familiar. To cry quietly and mask sadness as anger becomes natural.
I picture you sitting on this very same couch, legs crossed, as always. I remember you washing your trucks, so rigorously and with pride. I think about meeting with you for dinner. Losing you is losing a part of me, though I know your spirit is with me.
lizbethavila 