On nights when we widowers miss our loves and lovers, we turn to the drug of the pen. We write away in the blur of the emotional moment, describing out goings through the motions of life with no companion. We widowers wander the trails of lonesomeness, with the moon's shadows across our backs and the stars' gloom taunting and haunting. This traveling truly is daunting. Eventually, a combination of loneliness and anguish develops in us these small, bad habits. We bite our nails and drink too much too often, we let our facial hair grow. We start looking the part of heartbroken folks who can't move on, especially as they dream of their lovers constantly.
And, like we treasure this time of writing--not the writings themselves, we think
them worthless--as it reminds us of our loves, we treasure reading their writings--anything they've left. Quotes like "They say never say never, well I say... I will never leave you because I want you to have me forevermore" make us cry, others make us laugh. It is only then that we are not crashing into the reality of life and being ripped apart by the shards of its memories. Then, we are feeling real feelings; then, we are laughing or, probably, crying.
Adonis
