Apparently when we are alone it is because of circumstance or circumstance brings about a decision to be alone. We can be sad or feel vulnerable; we can feel scarred and damaged, we can feel broken. Whether we feel strong and independent enough to tough it out or rather express the need for help and accept it, we do so because we have, if not the ability to understand what has befallen us at least the ability to reason, to exchange even if we find it is only within ourselves that we stand, face to face.
It is that seclusion of our child which bothers us, that at very best there is a severely broken connection, no natural ebb and flow of the world out there and ME. Sometimes we try to mend that catastrophic joining and the veracious spirit allows for such. Yet our bond is not staccato, though frayed. Not a whole mirror, yet shards. We feel that they have lost their way and yet they show us our path, unless we choose our ignorance above all.
We protect knowing that we cannot. Live with the hope that this is indeed living. The soul shivers, from cold as well as uncertainty, uncertainty our only flame. The reverence of life distilled from each moment that we travel this path and hope it will quench a child's thirst though I know, his cup runneth over.
I feel shame that I cannot give more as though there exists some utopia, something more than what there is, something I have not yet given. I have seen this connection from up close because I have looked inside of myself and finding that my son is there with me I feel an awkward intimacy that blinds me.
We are, after all, not one spirit but distinctly two. How did I let myself fall into such a trap? That I could not distinguish myself from him? To restore order. To accept that lowly perch and see how mundane our struggle, not special.
His eyes do not search mine for answers, that bitter sweet approach, though my heart aches gladly at the thought that questions occupy his mind. Instead it is myself with blank stare opposite overwhelming answers from his endless eyes.