Little Things

Things I would've missed. I would've missed the voices from the floor below me, as well as the voices above me. I would've missed feeling movement around me. Sounds from the two youngest dragging furniture across the floor and laughing at their own jokes. I would've missed having control of who's in the house. Knowing the exact time, my family leaves and the exact time they get back home. Hearing the shoe horn being thrown against the wall, the jackets being pulled on, the keys in the door, and the car rumbling with all the life I will never have. I would've missed being left in solitude.

I would've missed the sound of my own voice. Not the voice that tells me everything I'm doing wrong and doubts every little decision I make. Not the voice that tries to drag me down every day and manages to convince me that I'm not meant to be around. But the small voice that sometimes manages to find hope. This little glimmer of hope has managed to keep me alive for another day. This little voice tries to fight the negative thoughts and that tells me that everything is going to be okay, in the end, it will all be worth it. I will miss that voice. The one who reminded me that I was strong enough.

If things were to go wrong. I would've missed my words. My stories. The poems I managed to pump life into when my own heart failed to pump life into me. I would've missed the feeling I get from letting my fingers run their way across the keyboard. I would've missed the feeling of the words being put together into beautiful sentences. I like to think that I hit someone in ways that no one has before, and if not others, then myself. I could read what I had written and think, wow, this is exactly how I feel. I would've missed letting out everything that was suffocating me. Everything that made me unable to breathe. I would've missed breathing. Perhaps my stories will actually outlive me. Perhaps then it would all be worth it. Isn't that what they say? Everyone becomes famous when they die.

I would've missed all the little things. Like the rain that poured down from outside, that hit the window with weak steady movements. The darkness settled over the sky in the late evenings. The way I lit the candles gave me a sense of warmth. The books I hid in. Music I sang with all the air left in my lungs. I would've missed sitting under a warm blanket, feeling safe. I would've missed hearing others laugh. I would've missed hearing myself laugh. I would've missed exploring new types of wine, drinking hot coffee, and infusing my tea with honey. I would've missed preparing new meals and having meaningful conversations with other people.

I would've missed a lot, but I wouldn't have missed the pain. And the pain alone is stronger than all these little things. I always knew the pain would be the only home I knew. I just didn't think it would be a place I didn't know how to escape.