The Narrative

My dad is dead.

The song loops.



My dad is dead.

It doesn’t matter in what order it happens, the narrative still stays the same. This isn’t a pity sob story about the girl who went on an adventure, found herself, and then lost her dad. There is no story here to tell except for the one that he is gone.

The world felt very big. Now it just feels bigger and a lot more alone without you here. No one can fill that void. It’s an empty space with echoes of your laughter.

Smiles on an empty face.

Tears in empty eyes.

Thoughts in an empty mind.



It doesn’t matter in what order it happens, the narrative still stays the same. And no one understands. No one understands what you meant to me. Who you were to me. What you were to me.

You were my sense in sensibility. My calm in my chaos. My voice in my silence. And now you are gone and no one can understand.

I read something the other day that said that there are different versions of yourself even to your own self. That who I am to me, and myself, is different then the version of myself to you.

My version of you dad is different then the version that anyone else has. Your version of me is the one that I always wanted to be, even if I never showed you or told you. And no one will ever understand my versions the way you did.

I don’t know how to be that version without you.

It doesn’t matter in what order it happens.

The narrative still stays the same.

My dad is dead.



pexels-photo-556666.jpegI’m sitting here in the darkness writing. Just paper & pen. Nothing more or anything less.

I don’t need any light to guide me through the darkness or any technologicalized computer to spell check my thoughts. It’s just me and my thoughts; Just me and this pen, and this piece of paper that’s logging in my words.

I choose to sit here in the absolute darkness and allow only the reflecting moon’s light to guide me through my passage: through my next thoughts, sentences and words. I sit here in utter darkness because I myself am so lost. So utterly lost. In the same way I am incapable of seeing these guided lines on this paper, I am incapable of seeing the guided lines and paths in my own life.

Am I even writing on the lines? I really don’t know. But that is an answer that will only be answered when the sun vanishes this darkness. This sun I speak of? Well, I really don’t know when it’s going to shine through, but I really hope that when it comes and brightens the road that it will show me that I have written straight. That I have written smoothly.

This pen, this ink, could have probably run out and I could have written nothing now; My thoughts merely thoughts instead of emphasized words that have been written. Are these words lost forever in this space of darkness? I really don’t know. Those answers, these questions, shall not and cannot be answered until tomorrow’s sun chooses to rise up and unleash itself against this darkness.

Darkness is something so oddly strange!

When will this darkness ever end? But how can darkness end? I mean is darkness even an object, or a structure? Is darkness a place or time, or even an era? Can it be measured or touched, or even felt? Is darkness something real, or something imaginary?

Perhaps darkness is merely the absence of something that should be there. Darkness could be simply the absence of light? When light disappears you have darkness, you have emptiness, you have fear.

Thus, I must conclude that darkness is nothing. More than the simple fact that is absence.

When absence no longer becomes present then you no longer have darkness, when that absence becomes filled with something, then the light will come. Then the light will be seen, and felt and touched. The darkness will be gone. The sun will shine and warmth will be felt.