What are the chances that you take a revolver to your head, put one bullet in a six chamber barrel and fire three times in two different instances, hoping - no - WILLING the gun to fire that bullet, yet continually and frustratingly beat death while it waits with bated breath?

 

I don’t know the feeling of total and utter despair. I thought I did. But I still see a small pinprick of a light at the end of the tunnel that so many times has bore a train going faster than I can outrun. 

 

But he, unequivocally, is the embodiment of despair. He is loss. He is no longer heartbroken - he is completely broken. There are so many glass shards of him and picking up just one of them to clean up the mess cuts your hand and penetrates your skin until it hits bone, giving way to an indescribable and painful infection that can never be treated. 

 

Yet, despite the pain, I would gladly pick up a thousand of those shards and bare that albatross of pain if, only for a second, to give him a reprieve from life’s suffocatingly and diabolically harsh reality. I would eat those shards. I would cut up my throat and silence myself so that he could speak about life’s beauty. I would blind myself with them so that he could see beyond a world of pain and suffering. I would stab my heart with them so that he could live a full and wonderful life. 

 

Although he is broken, he is beautiful. And the light, seemingly flickering and dying out until there is nothing left but smoke, just needs a little bit of breath on it to ignite the night in the forest once more. All is not lost. The night is darkest just before the dawn.