Pieces of thoughts, fragments of ideas, pictures half remembered are jotted down on scraps of paper, etched on my eyelids, carved on the right side of my brain, burnt into my soul.
None of it assimilated; all of it raw and present, sitting in a heap like the unsorted content of a suitcase emptied on arrival.
I look at the chaotic bits and pieces, the wreckage, and wonder how I can safely move through it, salvage it, imbed each moment of sheer exuberant happiness, deep contentment, exhilarating beauty into my heart yet also embrace the emptiness, the ache, the loss and sorrow piled up at the closed door.
I can’t pick and choose. It all is.
I need to find a way.