Buried within the grief is a constant longing for something I can not name.
This wanting is all encompassing and yet, most days, I give scant notice to its existence.
Except it's always there taunting me.
I think this wanting is my potential and all the things that I've wanted to do, (and be), since we arrived. All of the things that I've had to put on hold, a really clever tool of procrastination, although my reasons have been solid and no one, myself included, would hold it against me.
Except I do.
I realize that now. I get it that the guilt and shame and all the other fucked up names I've called myself during these past eighteen months have been my procrastinating safety net to keep myself small, to never reach any potential that I'd seen of myself because everything can and does change. By not acknowledging that everything does change, by holding fast to old and antiquated ideal scenarios of me and my life here, that will never be, I remain inert.
This wanting is my drive to continue living. To not be sucked into the vortex of my grief and depression; understanding that I'm exactly where I should be and that I will one day be ok. I will get used to my sister not walking this life with me; that her tattoo on my left hip is my reminder that she is always with me, while I do the living for both of us.
