"We pass the word around; we ponder how the case is put by different people, we read the poetry; we meditate over the literature; we play the music; we change our minds; we reach an understanding. Society evolves this way, not by shouting each other down, but by the unique capacity of unique, individual human beings to comprehend each other." - Lewis Thomas

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Memoir of a Solidary Wanderer pt2

I dreamt about her again last night. Her flowing brown hair and gloriously sparking eyes. She was like an angel, I could not have been happier. Our daughter was the mirrored image of her, beautiful and stunning. We were happy, beyond happy. It was good.

She was in her bleach white sundress and we were laying on a blanket under a tree. Her smile warmed my heart. I knew it was a dream, even while I was dreaming it. Her soft hand brushed against my scarred face, I was not alone here in my head like I was in my run down shack of reality. I could be with her, see her, touch her. I have lost the sound of her voice, forgotten with so many others. Lost amongst the waves of irradiated ponds, burning cities and collapsing civilizations.

By the end of the dream I had watched the waves of nuclear fire wash over her, as they did the day before. She tripped, it was not fault. I was carrying our daughter, I ran back I swear I did. I was too late. I'm sorry Vanessa, I am. I watched as I lost you, my love, again. Your life slipping through my fingers like grains of sand falling through an hour glass. Body collapsing into the flame, like a tired soul on a mattress.

You see before the war, or wars would be more appropriate, people were building and setting up shelters from the poison and the flames. Our neighbours had one, we could not afford to redo our house with the necessary materials (I would love to be able to tell you about the mechanics and all the technical jargon behind it, but alas I was no scientist just a mere office clerk working to pay the bills).

This diary, notebook, journal or whatever you wish to call it is my last attempt to tell my story. It is the last thing I am able to talk to. You who are reading this, I hope you understand. The darkness that swallows the human soul during times of cataclysmic events is a horrific stain, one that rarely ever leaves.

The sun has fallen: Day 30
Month: Unknown
Year: 2015
(Decided to try and keep track of the days)

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