More of the end.

It is to my belief that 

recovery ends when one becomes sick of recovering. 

The healing process can be so that it becomes sickening 

to know that it isn't over. 

Being in that gross, sick of feeling sick state,

I'm not at all sure what's comforting to me anymore.

Or perhaps the healing isn't ever meant to stop.

Maybe it really does last forever. 

I'm not necessarily talking about the pain, 

because somehow that subsided slightly without me lifting a finger.

However, 

I think that I'm done recovering from this disaster. 

It isn't mine to mourn anymore.

There is a life to live and I no longer need to feel it slipping away.

Life isn't supposed to be felt as it leaves. 

You wake up from your business and realize that a little bit more time has lapsed. 

But for the most part, 

I perfer the sleeping state of oblivion. 

My only goal for my life is to be able to sit down in a rocking chair 

after age has rocked my body and know that all of it was worth it.

This goal brings about a sense of nausea that indicates that 

I need to be done with what is done with me. 

Things are ending all over, 

and there are too many things that I need to finish myself 

long before they do me in.

Everything will be fine,

as everything will go the way that it's meant to.

At some point soon,

I won't need to sprinkle glitter over my eyelashes to see the beauty in everything.

Not that everything will then be beautiful,

but I will have the gall to accept that some things are meant to be ugly. 

This was a terrible love, 

and it always will be. 

Terribly big, terribly hideous, terribly strong.

It was terribly permanent.

I have taken the solace in the walls around me,

forever grateful that not everything speaks. 

I've found that my favorite parts of life come when I ignore words. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.