Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
But time has marched on and as I have said before the memories fade and new routines replace the old. They are not routines that I have welcomed but I am comforted by the sameness. Funny how everything shifts, and the expectations are lowered. I do enjoy certain things in my life but the enjoyment is at a different level-it is just ok. I have a good time, not a great time. Almost as if my taste buds are dulled.
And I have stopped thinking about the future. Why dwell on what will be when I was so blindsided by an event that I could not have predicted? The future holds something but I do not know what. All is uncertainty and so I cling to the routines that I have built in to my life in his absence.
I move along a pathway that is still dark. One foot in front of another. Don't think too much, just do.