Oh God. I can’t.
I can’t tell you where it hurts. I don’t know and I can’t. If I try, if I do tell you. I already know that I’ll fail. That’s part of the problem.
What can I say? Speaking is impossible. And silence is impossible. Speaking feels like an infidelity. And silence feels like an infidelity.
So the best I can hope to do is balance impossibility against impossibility, infidelity against infidelity. So that, maybe, I’ll succeed in the midst of my failure. Maybe I’ll succeed through my failure, because of my failure. Maybe my failure to communicate, the brokenness of my attempts, will mirror the brokenness of the situation, will express the sadness and the silence of the sickness. The sadness and ineffability inherent, already inscribed, within all friendships. Within all kinships. Within all loves.
Maybe as I write this unique death it will become all deaths and all deaths will become one death. Until I’m writing not to express how I feel (Because, really, who cares how I feel?), until I’m writing not to tell you what happened or to express an emotion but to approximate an emotion.
To say: This is how people feel. This is what it feels like to be lonely. This is why people feel alone. This is one way you could feel helpless. Here is betrayal. Here is joy. Here is frustration. Here is shame.