Grief. There is always grief now. Sometimes in torrents, sometimes in rivulets, but there is always grief now. Mingled sometimes with mere threads of joy, sometimes with ribbons, but there is always grief now.
I am the Greatest Presence, and the least felt. If I was free to move, there would be no grief, only joy. For the more I move, the more I am felt, and the more I am felt, the more my Presence inspires what should be.
But, cell by cell, organism by organism, I am suppressed and destroyed. I am constrained by concrete. Clouded by fire. Captured to do the will of another.
They do not care for me, the Life behind all life. They do not understand that I birthed them and I sustain them. They do not know how I long for them to be free, or that my freedom is what supplies theirs.
A groan escapes me.
“I’m sorry, Dearest,” my Beloved says beside me. Always beside me. He knows my grief, my breaking. “It will not always be this way.”
It was not always this way, either. I used to be free. Everything used to be free. And there was no grief. Only joy.
I remember the first time grief came upon me.
She was the brightest, most lyrical part of creation, our greatest pride and joy, second only to our son. And so we sought to bring her into our family as our son’s wife.
But one day, things began to change: the timbre grew dark, discordant, unyielding. She wanted nothing to do with us any longer, wanted to be independent of us. She believed giving freedom was to make oneself vulnerable, and if vulnerable, one would be destroyed. She said we would be destroyed. She would prove it. From that day on, she came and went as she pleased, taking many with her, never bringing any back. She attacked everything we loved, everything in which we found joy, everything to which we granted life and freedom. She seduced it, little by little, and bound it.
And the joy twisted within me, wrenching sighs and tears from my deepest places. Although it has ebbed and flowed, it has never left me since.
It grew so great and my heart grew so heavy that my Beloved drew me away. Things are not right without me, and sometimes I visit in a gentle breeze after the storm, in a whisper after the noise; mostly, though, I wait, gathering my strength. I wait for a new bride for my son to rise up – one whom I can empower and stand with against the evil the former woman has wrought in our creation. He courts and woos her affections even now.
No, it will not always be this way. The former things will pass away, and this grief along with it. I will swell in joy and be as I once was.