If almost any man were made to feel the grief you feel they would go mad, stark raving insane.
The reeds blow in the wind. They are pale and white, and the wind that moves them carries tears. The storm is here in pieces and in waves, some stronger, some lighter, all in their own insidious ways carrying its wailing grief.
I imagine I am there among the reeds my hands held out, tears streaking down, the eternal grief coursing through me, that one where we only get to know people only to say goodbye. You have to stand alone one day, I cannot be there forever, you have to go on without me. I stand there, and there is that horrified expression on my face mingled with bewilderment as I feel so gut wrenchingly that no one can understand my universe, or its horrors, they can only stand and watch and listen from afar, spectators to what is ghastly, or what is like the spring, or like these grey storm clouds hanging so low over the reeds and the bit of pond between them. Its for rented fish catching they told me, the rod and string kind, not the massive net pulled through the water by a little boat’s boatman in the thundering full bodied river back home. Its for catching one at a time, the glory of the catch, the glory of what comes afterwards. Tall pale blonde reeds with pale heads blow the way we were going. It filled me with deep sadness and terrible thoughts that circle me in the me in my universe, inasmuch that I am alone.