Written days after the fire – ink on paper – paper stained with tears – writing difficult due to hand injury from the fire – Offered here as insight to early thoughts/feelings –
There are nights when words don’t come. My mind forms no content worthy of writing.
The silence and solitude surround me like a tightening cloak. Entrapping. Suffocating.
No focus of thoughts. Tired, but no sleep.
Wanting to be able to turn back time. Wanting to have not slept that night – that early morning. Wishing to have been aware earlier – able to save whomever I could – Able to say “Don’t go back in!” – Able to have been able to summon earlier help.
Rain enhances the stench of the remains of the house. Breezes carry the sour, sickening, acrid aroma. It infests everything.
I should sleep but I can’t. I am tired. Weary. Exhausted.
People say I am strong.
I don’t feel strong.
Perhaps I do what I do – I keep going – because if I didn’t, if I stopped, I would crumble and fall.
The unbearable losses would consume me – consume what is left of me.