I turned 32 yesterday.
Life goes on. On and on and on. I do an OK job of turning up at work, keeping my appointments, seeing (some) people, making conversation. heh.
Existence has always been a bit bothersome. I’ve always had a foot in melancholia.
So here we are. 32. And perfectly comfortable in a certain kind of sadness. A certain type of gloom. A depth defying sorrow. I get up and go about , looking at existing, and some days , I swear, it feels like an out of body experience.
Someone at work blow-dries my hair, I wear a new dress, put on eyeliner. I look at all of it and I know I am here. Here. Proof. I have pictures. I went somewhere yesterday, I had lunch with my darling nephew today. My father and I made sandwiches for dinner.
This is where I truly belong.
Being parentless is extremely hard. Being without my mother, the person she was, the person she was to me, the person who without fail stood up for me at every turn, the person who loved me endlessly, who always came forward to wipe my tears, to look at me with nothing less than kindness and love; losing her has opened up an abyss of emptiness for me.
And so. Here we are. Another birthday come and gone. How strange is life. How strange is it that I should be here, feeling all this , living this life?