At the End of the Day

Those sentences, maybe they carry something in them for some people sometimes. If they stand for something, then Phoebe doesn’t sense the meaning of the words stated in the dictionary. Nothing positive, no effort that would be rewarded, no occurrence of something that was planned or pursued. That which occurred was not intended. The effort was not rewarded. And no one knows how to deal with the negative, that’s why they say “good luck” and Phoebe feels pushed away. Did she also always do it like that? Uttering an ‘Oh!’, looking distressed, calming herself down, giving an encouraging look and saying good luck. Then quickly keep going. Phoebe can’t go on quickly, doesn’t want to rapidly continue. She wants to live in this phase. She wants to stay awake and watch how the sun goes down, how everything goes dark, darker, and darker. She wants to see the stars sparkle, far away, really far away. A long way off something sparkles, a long way off the sun is ablaze, a long way off it is entirely bright. And Phoebe want to sit there when it is getting dark and think about it. She wants to know about the brightness when it is not around her, when its fading, she wants to know about the power of light. No, she doesn’t simply want to push away the no-luck-season, not get through somehow with half-closed eyes. Phoebe did put in an effort. So many wishes inside of her, so many good intentions, so many desirable things. And she was ambitious, diligent, hardworking. “We regret to inform you that”… “unfortunately”… “we are sorry.” Sorry, suffering, sorrow. Will it be easier with time? It will be easier to carry for sure. One can carry it with more ease but not because of the loss of weight of the grief but because of the unconscious increase in force on ones behalf. Yes, it must be like that. This insight would fit probably for a social post but it has probably been done before, with greater numbers, so Phoebe desists from it. Instead, Phoebe freezes the sentences in front of her eyes so she can look at them at rest. Next, she unsticks the words from the sentences and the letters from the words and lets them dance in front of her. Expressive dance. G-R-I-E-F. Going, running in extreme fog. Goodness recovered in endured fear. Yes, grief. Not unfortunately grief but fortunately grief. Okay, that’s probably too much. Simply yes, grief. Yes, and Phoebe’s smile is getting bigger. Yes, she accepts. In the same way as she had accepted the mud, she now accepts the pain. The pain when something dies when something is not bright and can never be bright again. Phoebe is tired, so tired. Now, again she cannot sleep properly but this will go by. For sure. She digs up a memory. Has it happened long ago or just recently? She knows about it now as if she always knew. But when he had told her back then for sure it was the first time that she pronounced it herself. Now sometimes she murmurs it for herself: ‘At one point the night is over…’ and when she comes to the second part, then she always hears his voice, ‘and then a new day will come’. Yes, some things are not bright, some time is dark, some night is tough and fretful and and at the same time it will always get bright. At one time the night is over.