Confusion

I have written a few things that I have meant to post, but then lost total interest--in writing, in posting, in expression. One of the hardest things about grieving is the inherant futility that becomes such a pervasive part of one's personality, outlook, approach to living. Honestly, who really cares about my personal experience of this holocaust. I hardly care anymore. None of it matters. It's as pointless as dusting furniture in an empty house.

But, I have nothing else to do. So, here are some new posts, though I'm not certain why I am bothering, or what really I'm doing.

I am not very good at this. I mean any of it. Life. I am simply too confused on how it should be "done."

Here are some bullet points:

I want to write but I don't know where to start, in what genre, how to begin, how to punctuate, how to close, where/if/how/why I should submit anything anywhere.
I can't get my mind straight. I don't know what thought to follow, or how far to go with it. Should I really, finally learn how to use my 4G phone or my camera? When should I stop editing a sentence?
Should I vacuum, call my daughter, ride the stationary bike, start a new diet, learn Pilates instead of doing the same 7 yoga poses over and over again? Should I start using my hand weights again? Should I join a gym or take a class?
Would it make any difference if I took my job seriously? Would my thoughts of Maxx diminish somewhat in direct correlation to how intently I was able to concentrate on the superfluities of "working?"
Should I volunteer to work with shelter dogs?
Should I start crying now or later?
What the fuck am I doing?

All I really know is that I hurt all the time. I desperately try to corral my thoughts into one pen or another in absurd attempts to manage the chaos that blasts from the moment I awaken until I try to sleep at night--at which point the dreaming begins. There is no rest. How many times have I written, "I am lost." How many more times must I, will I write those words? Is this internal explosion a permanent state of being? I fear that it is.

Sometimes, when I would lie with Maxx as he began to drift off to sleep, I would have the sense, really the vision, that I was soaring over mountains and valleys, rivers, and farm scapes far below. Like those airplane shots in travel logs. Controlling my sweeping dips and arcs, seeing all that expansive beauty below me while my baby boy's back was fitted snugly into my chest, the steady, soothing sounds of his thumb sucking, a musical backdrop to my flight. Such safety. Flight without the risk. (Though wasn't it all risky? How could such deep love not be the risk of a lifetime?)

Now I am shot upwards suddenly as if I were propelled by a landmine. There is no small curved body with its luxurious fleshy baby smell, no birdlike chirpy sounds, no fuzzy head against which to nuzzle. Just the explosion of my heart and mind. Just the explosion.

Of course, there hadn't been a fuzzy head against which to snuggle for over 17 years when he died. But that is the other thing about grief. What were once poignant memories of a shared past become grindingly painful realities in the present. The past becomes our now. And more frighteningly, a future freighted with the burden of loss.