"Answer me!" She grabbed me by my shirt and shook me. She pushed me back and stared at my downcast face. "Talk to me, goddammit!" Tears filled my eyes, but would not overflow. The walls were up, the lock was down. I shook my head, and she flopped backwards onto the couch. I stood there, a thousand words poised on my tongue. She looked up at me. The more I thought to say, the firmer my jaw became. I sat down and blinked. I had withdrawn so far as to have hidden from myself as well. I wanted to talk, to scream, to shout, to throw myself against the walls, but gravity was far too much for me, effort was beyond me, and I sat there, limp and unmoving. My body would not respond to my commands. She rose and stood before me. Moments of silence passed. She slowly walked away to the bedroom and closed the door. There are a thousand emotions in this recipe. Take a healthy dose of shame for hurting the ones you've loved, add a cup or two of guilt, one or two unconscionable acts, a dash of insecurity, a spoonful of neediness, and pour everything else into a blender and puree. Combine with some depression and anger, and bake it all in the oven of a twisted and mangled heart. Tada! Despair. Despair is not an emotion. It is a state of being. It exists in the complete absence of spirit or hope. Like the weight of the world, it rests on your shoulders and is with you from the moment you awake until the time you close your eyes again. Even then, it sometimes writes the stories of your dreams, guides your sleeping breath. It is nothingness. I got that raise finally? So what? My cousin had a beautiful baby boy? That's nice. What is that? Oh, is that the light at the end of the tunnel? Oh, okay. Despair is what happens when your heart dies. Despair is what you live when you have given everything of yourself away. Despair is where you are when you finally believe all the bad things you've ever told yourself about yourself, and know that every single word is absolutely, fundamentally true. Rolling onto my back, I feel a sharp pain shoot through my shoulder, a book is wedged in behind a couch cushion, bringing me back to my present moment, fitful as it is. My one overriding thought is that when I fall asleep I would have no complaints if I never woke up again. Only then do I feel the tears that have covered my cheeks. And in that moment, I know... my despair is not yet complete, because I cry. I cry because I have lost. I cry because I hurt and have hurt the one I love. I cry because of the thousand mistakes and the thousand sins that have led me here to this point. At a time in my life when I should have everything in order, I am surrounded by chaos and poverty of will. At an age when I should be secure and in command, I am groundless and without a mark of accomplishment. Mostly, though, I cry because I care - and as long as I care, there is hope for some kind of substance to the rest of my life, alone or not. I sit up and allow myself time to breathe, to collect. I wipe the salt and water from my eyes and cheeks and think for a moment. Getting up, I walk to the door of the bedroom and slowly, silently open it - at this moment a sure violation of privacy, a trespass, a breaking and entering. And there she sleeps, hugging a pillow, most of the sheets on the floor, a beautiful, perfect angel, tiny and alone. She appears now as she did to me a year ago: soft, feminine, a woman once known to me but somehow lost and who can never be regained. Her face is smooth and young, her breasts rise and fall soulfully. I watch her for a very long time, and my arms ache to reach out and embrace her from across the length of the room. My heart yearns for a touch, a kiss, a simple word of acceptance. I quietly back away and partially close the door. As I stand and listen to my own breath, I know that it's over. What the powers have put together we have torn asunder. There will be no miracle from the skies to save us, no manna to feed our hunger. My hand lingers on the knob before I turn away. The walk back to the couch is like a mountain climb, but I make it, and slowly lower myself down, laying back and staring at the ceiling, hugging a pillow of my own. I'm asleep almost before my eyes close, but not until after Hemingway's words drift through my clouded mind: "When two people fall in love there can be no happy end to it." The room is colder than I remembered. ::devoid8