sadness

I haven’t spo­ken much in a while. Much to a great deal of busi­ness and sad­ness that I’ve al­lowed to over take me. Walk­ing this earth now know­ing I can­not take a dri­ve or make a phone call to the woman who gave me life is some­thing so hard to swal­low.

The claws it scratch­es at my throat leaves my voice high pitched in fits of anger. The mass is too much that I lose abil­i­ty to speak – voice­less. In all mo­ments I wish I could be as strong as I stood that mo­ment. But I re­mem­ber where re­al­i­ty struck and my mind knew. It lost the hope that every­thing would be okay.

When I ar­rived at the hos­pi­tal and was called back – my moth­er was still in a frozen seiz­ing state like what I had watched pri­or to the am­bu­lance tak­ing her away. I fig­ured it would had stopped by now. My heart held that be­lief un­til the doc­tors ques­tions tried to dis­tract my eyes from watch­ing what seemed to be the worse hor­ror movie I ever laid eyes on.

This is rough to retell. And I am sor­ry, it burns deeply. I am in a place where I must re­lease it. The flow and in­grain­ing of this night is sim­i­lar to this pho­to I took in the sky. That path­ways craved deep into the land mak­ing move­ments that have giv­en birth to all shapes and forms re­late so sim­i­lar­ly to where I stand this mo­ment. Some­thing has craved into me. At times it feels like they took my heart, oth­ers it’s the hap­pi­ness I was be­gin­ning to gain, and oth­er times it feels like I’ve been com­plete­ly swept away – not even in ex­is­tence any­more.

And I can’t stand any mo­ment of hope some­one lays upon me and takes it away – even in the slight­est. For me I have such emo­tion­al thoughts and at­tach­ments to things that this trig­gers the lost hope I found this night.

Dis­cov­er­ing hope is af­ter things set­tle, nor­mal­i­ty, and new things be­gin. Mak­ing the turn to face a new di­rec­tion in life be­gins a flur­ry of ques­tions, and wor­ry. Wor­ry in which if I set forth will I now have to be as strong as I stood this night, which took so much, will I now live a life not of my moth­er and where shall she go, will I now be tak­en upon this whim – some­where else so be­yond – and do I have the pow­er to make it what I wish it to be?

—al­ley schef­f­ki

Flom­mist Al­ley Schef­f­ki is 21 years young, ‘I am the blue rose. Dies ist ein wun­sch für frei­heit.’ Copy­right © 2015 Al­ley Schef­f­ki. All rights re­served.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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