In a moment of solitude, something was discovered tonight: Because of family, nothing but sadness is felt. Not sad in the melancholic-sense or "that's just sad" kind of way but sadness greater than the shallow six feet under norm. Sadness on a level so deep that it wrenches the soul in physical pain and leaves the mind a little more detached, a little more dark, and a lot more depressed. This sadness sprouts from a seed of doubt, from which grows the thought that there is indeed a limit to love and that bonds of familiarity and family ties can be severed if someone is constantly, consciously cutting at them.
Excuses were made for them. Members of the family were built up, especially mother dearest, as persons greater than who they are in reality. Created in their place was something or someone to look up to, someone to be respected and proud of when in fact the person fitting said descriptions was in fact the describer, foolishly passing credit and accolades onto undeserving people. Denial. In the process of building them up, the describer was digging his own grave. Buried in denial, desperately trying to keep seeing things through the eyes of a child, where everything and everyone appeared bigger and better than they actually were; like long shadows cast by small objects. But now the light has gone out, there are no more shadows. The grave has been filled, the mind has matured and the child inside has died.
What now? Trapped in a grave dug by one's self. Each member of the family has gone their own way and the point of reconciliation has been long lost and intentionally forgotten. The present circumstance? Three selfish strangers sharing one house. Part of the denial stemmed from a hope that perhaps "happy family" status could be restored. That perhaps the house could become a home...
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