Sorrow

The thunder that booms in the dark, outside sky sounds like a thousand hurricanes hitting at once, and I am still not asleep. I glance at the clock and it reads half past two. For the past couple of hours, the rain hadn’t stopped pelting against my window, and when I would slowly turn to watch, the shadows of the naked tree branches outside illuminated and irradiated on my white wall, covering almost the entire inside of my room. The thin, leafless figures danced around my room like a crowd of people in a ballroom. From down the street, I can hear the old swing set’s creak pierce through the night as the wind would slowly pick up, adding its breeze to the wintery night. Thankfully, there hadn’t been any lightning, so I didn’t have to listen to the deafening and volatile, winter bolts crackle and rip through the almost seemingly pitch black sky. I tried playing games with myself to help me fall asleep, but none had worked so far. The past week had been like this, lying in my bed in the middle of the night, not even remotely tired. I have too many thoughts racing around in my head to even allow my mind to get the tiniest bit of rest. These were the very thoughts that haunted me, day and night. They entered my dreams even when I did get sleep, and there they would prey like lions, hidden behind the tall, savannah grass, waiting to pounce on me at any given moment. They reminded me that the past was still there with me in the present, still lurking as a ghostly silhouette in an old and dark alley, and it wasn’t going anywhere.
On my dresser, I can see the outline of the picture of her and me, taken in the gazebo in her backyard, just past the treehouse in the great oak, where the forest met the tall, uncut grass. Next to it, the money bank she gave me for my birthday as a joke because I always lost my change. On the wall hung the Dave Matthews poster she got me when I was sick and couldn’t go to the concert. Hung up in the corner of my closet hung the leather jacket she got me last Christmas, because she told me I reminded her of Fonzi whenever I entered a room. And in my mind were concealed the countless memories driving in my car, top roof open, the wind whipping briskly into our faces. The speed limit was something that was written in a strange and unknown language when we were together, and the thrill of going eighty miles per hour down the street was something we loved and lived together. There were memories of running down the street in the rain, wet clothes wrapped around our bodies. Memories of lying in the hammock out in front of my house, watching the clouds pass us by, and every now and then glancing to see if the other was looking in their direction. But now, those memories seemed fake, just a figment of my imagination. I have broken her, and nothing can mend the mess I had made.
My eyes have been closed for some time now, so I roll over to the other side of the bed in hopes I can find some comfort there. After a few seconds, I find no luck, so I roll back over and happen to get a glance at the clock. You would think that by ten to four I would even a little bit tired, but sleep was hard to find nowadays. I thought about the last conversation, the last fight we had outside her car. There I stood like a fool as her disappointed, tear filled eyes looked into mine, and I could see the hurt and pain. Through her, I could see what she was looking at, and it was the look you would give to a stranger, as if they don’t mean anything to you. She saw me with new eyes; saw me for what I was and what I will always be. Words played very little part that night, seeing as how I needed words the most, and they had failed me. I could recite the entire scene of Romeo and Juliet when Romeo is speaking to his beloved Juliet on the balcony, and here I am unable to put the two words together, the two words that just needed to be said the most. The tears that had been shed melted right through the little snow that remained on the ground. Around us, little children’s footprints could be traced all around the yards. Shattered remains of snowmen built just a few days before lay at the edge of driveways and curbs with the carrots, peas and old, forgotten torn scarves lost in the white, late December snow. Different scenarios of this situation and its outcome played in my head. The two words that I couldn’t muster the courage to say came and went through my mind like the ocean tide on the edge of the beach. Even here, in the safety and warmth of my own bed and blanket, I can still feel that snow fall upon my cheeks, quickly dissolving on my face. The snow fell on my face as if a blizzard was in my room. It was real, and reality never felt so bitter. It’s funny how the winter can be the harshest season of the year.
I lay remembering that in that moment looking at her perched on the hood of the car crying so hard, I could feel the world spinning beneath me. The silence at that moment was so loud I could hardly hear my own thoughts. I left her there that night more broken than anything before, more hurt than she had ever felt before. The guilt ripped and tore through my flesh and insides, wrapping around my body like vines on a tree. That night I wanted to drink my pain away and I wanted to drink hers away. But I knew after what I had done, I had burnt every connection we once had, when I could feel what she felt, and she could feel what I felt. Now there was no way for me to take her pain, her hurt, her crying away. All the ties between us had been severed, and I was the culprit. It was as if I took a knife and cut the rope that bound us together, joined as one where we would wash away each other’s insecurities and fears. The clock strikes a quarter past four.
The rain is slowly coming to an end, although I can still hear the tiny, light splatters of the raindrops outside on the cement. Fog had begun to seep through the air outside, which added to the gloomy, lurid feeling that the winter night brought. It was now that I missed the late afternoon sun of the summer, the familiar tune of the ice cream truck playing all across the neighborhood, as children begged their parents for any money they can spare for a fudgecicle or freeze pop. Kids playing baseball and kickball in the street, every now and again running to the front lawn to giggle and jump through the sprinkler that was clearly meant for the grass, not for playing. But the parents didn’t mind as they sat in lawn chairs in the front yard, reading magazines or drinking a few beers with the neighbors with no shoes on, letting their feet sit in the warm, freshly cut grass. The buzzing sound of insects filling the air, followed by the squawking and chirping of blue jays and sparrows. The hot, late afternoon aroma that filled the air was very distinct, and what I love the most about summer. So crisp, distinct, and you can always smell even the tiniest hint of burning charcoal as neighborhood barbeques lasted throughout the night. People jogging down the street with a water bottle in one hand, and a leash with a dog attached to the other end trotting along behind them. Summer was always my favorite time of year, because it meant that there was still time left before fall approached, and all the trees on the leaves began to fade to yellow and orange. Fall was when the circus would come to town, and it was a family tradition to go. As a young kid, I marveled at the sights and sounds of the live circus, the atmosphere that ensued was always exciting, exhilarating, electrifying. The energy there was almost too overwhelming to be true, caught between a world of fantasy and a world of reality. The sounds, the lights, the laughter were what gave the circus life, made it a living being in our world to give us the best entertainment. Heads turned and eyes would widen has the bravest person in the world would walk across the tightrope, miles above the ground, walking with the Gods. And then the lion tamer would come out with the king of the jungle, and the crowd would scream with each growl and swipe the lion would take at the daring lion tamer who always seemed to barely just get away with his life. It was every kid’s dream to be that lion tamer, or be the one who dares defy gravity with the help of a very long and thin rope. I guess dreams don’t always come true, after all.
My body is beginning to feel warm and heavy, which means that sleep is just around the corner. Sleep, a temporary escape, a fleeting getaway to somewhere where you can’t stay long. A momentary rest, a short-lived flee to a state of unconsciousness where you are left alone with your dreams, and even there, safety is not guaranteed from nightmares and the lions that prey and hunt.
I pray I do not dream of Shakespeare tonight. I pray I do not dream of the tune of an ice cream truck tonight.

The rain stops. The trees cease to dance.

Silence floods the room.

Silence has never been so loud.