After-effects

Psychologically tired, so  exhausted that the impotence shows the remains of a waste of contradictions. Saturated with the incomprehensible medical jargon that I have not deciphered yet. And beaten to think that the only way to escape the mind is to explode into a crying child, leaving me  with the consolation of others.

 You feel the world collapse under your feet with each incoherent  response and you go back  into your mood with the desperation of not getting even the  minimum advance in therapy. The busy dream makes the mornings become in a prolonged agony. The busy dream prolongs the morning's agony.

I look at her face and I do not recognize the sweet look that days before said goodbye to me before the door frame. Glued eyes sleep in an almost perpetual drowsiness, and the doubt comes again to my head with the question that haunts me, will there be a day that won't remind me of her?

Matted hair on pale skin shows an image that little resembles the vital dash that used to loosen, making me change the image I have recorded in my memory, replacing the new look to that of what once was.

The upper lip revealeas the cruelty of what happened, letting one see the cut by the broken teeth. But when I see the remains of what once I kissed, I can not imagine anything but the softness that I still retain in my mind. I try not to think about what taste these new kisses will have , because my only worry is that they will be returned to me someday. I do not mind the aversion it caused me at the begining if I can see before me the miracle personified. Because I have been advised  not to fall into the mindless vortex of hope; return to those days, when everyday seemed more a relief than a punishment.  It  is more difficult for her  than when she opens her eyes and recognises what is around her, including me.

 After an agitated sigh the delirium interrupts her rest. Opening the eyes, in flashing blinks,  she trys to accept as a reminder the environment, for nothing familiar although the same event repeats again and again. Her mind is slow on that fateful day. Her only and last memory fills and saturates any semblance of sanity, beyond the human limits of tolerance to her suffering. I see through her eyes the confusion and the fear of what her memory saved and played over and over again. I do not try to take her hand to calm her with sweet words, which later ends up forgotten, the restlessness of her stubborn memory feeds with the weak resistance offered. But the fear of defeat should not make me leave and I insist , despite being a complete unknown in the present day, to not stop fighting against the torture which she passed, and rebuild the days of her past as a puzzle more complex than her pshyche hides.

Powerless, I feel so helpless that I have to explode and then come back and continue, draining energy until the detritus of my exhaustion.

Patience becomes my only companion, and together we hope that in this roomthe phenomenon will be bornthat gives rise to the days when the monotony leads us through of what silly is the pleasure of live.