For a train long departed



The years are going by very quickly and with time, things fade. Slowly I begin to think that maybe the pain would eventually run out of effect, and in place we'd be numb with the occasional gasping for air from the sudden shock of memories or dreams of the long lost.

But somehow Sundays makes the heart grow weaker because when the sun shines and we're awake, its a stab in the heart. To be able to wake up and feel the pain because somewhere the slow, lazy footsteps of life just doesn't come anymore. The house is never alive anymore; its been dead no matter how loudly we laugh or how full of activity the house is. There is always that empty chair, that clean unused mug, that untouched portion, that silent missing opinion, that cold side of the bed.

For what its worth, we go by everyday like we're busy and we'd wake up with the day's agenda solid in our minds. We treasure life and we cherish every waking moment and keep you alive in our memories but sometimes having to face it and deal with it; its nerve-wrecking, don't you think? It gets to you.

While at times I wished for a solid metallic heart, other times I wished that I was the only one to care. To remember.

Let it be me to turn and cry, and let it be them to live a fuller cheerful life, sweeping me along with them.