Pulse.

n. A rhythmical throbbing of the arteries as blood if propelled through them, typically felt in the wrist or neck.

The rate of this throbbing, used to ascertain the rate of someone’s heartbeat and so their state of health or emotions.

--The New Oxford American Dictionary

Pulse. A tiny, repetitive mechanical action. A miniscule flutter occurring with anticipated consistency in beings everywhere, generally unworthy of note. Automatic.

Except when it stops.

Taken for granted.

Until it is absent.

It’s the lack thereof where the real shit begins.

She’s gone. A painting made of honey, I look for the sweetness that must be somewhere in these swirls of pain. She’s at peace. But will I ever be, ever again? A sudden space I had no idea was there envelopes me, and I’m drowning. Escape. While I long to, the pain follows me, hunting me, haunting me, up until the moment I think I’ve eluded it and it springs upon me, taking me down again.

Impulse (n.)

1. a sudden strong and unreflective urge or desire to act.

2. a driving or motivating force, an impetus

[PHYSICS] a force acting briefly on a body and producing a finite change in momentum.

Busy. A body in motion cannot feel sadness. Or at least that’s the way I’m acting. For the first few days I would wake up, remember, want to fall back to sleep again and fail. I would go about my day in an odd haze of sadness, grief weighing me down like boulders tied to my ankles as I struggled to surface for air. Movements come slowly, and occur solely from habit and instinct; anything new or deviant from the routine would likely be forgotten. Time begins shape shifting, with minutes lasting hours and hours lost suddenly with no recollection of their contents. I run myself to the edges, hoping to exhaust myself to sleep before my mind gets a chance to wander.

While a part of me craves stillness, I fear it, afraid of what might happen in the space.

Compel (v.) force or oblige someone to do something, a sense of duty.

“How are you?” The small talk and the long tight hugs might be what will do me in. I am aware that the etiquette dictates that I graciously accept condolences and make those around me comfortable. And yet I want to scream and thrash around, I want to writhe on the floor in a physical manifestation of what I feel inside. And yet I smile and attempt to give the right answers. When I can take it no longer I sit down and let the tears fall freely, people avoid looking at me, or look away quickly as though to give me privacy. It doesn’t matter, my insides are on the outside and things.are.not.well.

Compulsion (n.)

1. The action or state of farcing or being forced to do something, constraint. An irresistible urge to behave a certain way, esp against one’s conscious wishes.

Sick. I often feel sick to my stomach, as though the black sadness has become the bile in my gut and is poisoning me. I want to vomit, to puke out this terrible sadness and feel light again. It’s all so heavy I want to do anything to get it out. My body shudders, shivers, trembles, what is this movement, I will run any distance or go to any length to make it stop. Anxiety. I find myself laughing at the oddest times and for no reason, knowing it doesn’t fit with the setting and not caring because although not impossible, it is difficult to laugh and cry simultaneously.