I am not as I once was

I am not as I once was. I took some time to read back some pieces, all dated before the day my grandfather died, and one thing appears clear to me; I am not as I once was. In some ways I think I’ve become a poorer writer but a better speaker. Words I’d never have dared speak before come tumbling out of my mouth uninhibited. While the language of my finger tips appears stunted, threaded with hesitation. Like the words I speak hold as much weight as the ones I write, and now the balance is broken. I’m not sure I like it. 


My relationships are better for it, I get to the point much more quickly now. But I fear my thinking and therefore writing has taken a hit. Or maybe that’s just grief. I’m not sure. But what I do know is that more honesty has flown from my mouth than ever before and I can’t quite remember how I used to keep it all to myself. Maybe I wasn’t meant to. Maybe these things were always meant to be spoken. Maybe I just have less to write because I already said it. I’m not sure. 


And another thing, I don’t think I like it. I’ve chosen to stake my life on the things I write, so grief taking me out at the ankles again feels rather rude. It’s been months and it only now feels like its truly caught up to me. Or maybe I’ve caught up to it. That’s the thing, I never can quite tell if I’m doing this right. Grief, that is. I’m not sure I’m doing grief right. Which is in-of-itself a stupid statement and one I ought to burn in a gutter. Really I don’t think I could do it wrong, only if I never gave it space at all, never let it breath. That, that would have terrible consequences. But I’m not doing that so I must be fine. I just don’t feel it. 


It feels like a ghost these day, one I only acknowledge to myself, and pretend no-one else has following around. A silly thing really, my whole family has their own same ghost. So why I only speak with my own is a puzzling matter to say the least. 


So maybe it’s not that I’ve become a poor writer, I think maybe it’s just my tone has changed. Taken a left turn when I thought to take right. I think the thing that sits beneath my sentences has changed it’s shape and now remains a different colour altogether. I am not as I once was, and it is clear to see, to me. Haven’t a mirror that will show you what I see inside of myself, so these words will have to do. Haven’t a mirror to show you the exact thing that changed, or broke, when grief came to set up a true camp in my life. When grief began building house to live it for all the rest of my days. 


Because once where the love of my grandfather lived, now sleeps it’s eternal effigy. The evidence of grief rot, because of love loved. It’s an odd statement to be sure. But I loved my grandfather like no other, and will love him like no other for all time. 


It has changed me, and I am not as I once was. 

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