AN ENDLESS LOOP

It began again. The endless loop. My mind was a broken record skipping on the same groove, replaying memories like prized possessions, fragile and worn but cherished nonetheless. Today, as yesterday, and the endless string of yesterdays blurring into one, I woke up thinking of her.

The garden beckoned. Looking out my window, I saw a riot of color, a testament to nature’s vibrant exuberance. The yellow roses, their petals unfurling like miniature suns, danced in the gentle morning breeze. Next to them, the white lilies, their elegant trumpets tilting skyward, seemed to hum with a silent melody.

And there, between the roses and the lilies, she was in my mind’s eye. Slender and graceful, sunlight caught the auburn strands of her hair, making them glow like copper wire. She was always smiling in these imaginings, her eyes, the color of warm honey, crinkling at the corners. She would wave to me, a languid gesture of invitation, her voice, which I could almost hear, soft as the rustling leaves, urging me to come out and join her.

“Come on,” she would whisper in my head, “The air feels wonderful.”

Today was no different. I sat, frozen in the same position I’d occupied for countless mornings, gazing at the garden. My hand instinctively reached for the cool, smooth surface of the windowpane, a physical barrier separating me from the vibrant world outside and, more importantly, from her.

The reality, however, was a stark contrast to the pleasant vision swirling in my head. The garden was beautiful, but she wasn’t there. It was just flowers and leaves, sunshine and shadows. The waving, the laughing, the soft invitation – all figments of a grief-stricken imagination.

My heart, a hollow echo chamber, ached with her absence. Each beat was a painful reminder of what was lost, what could never be again. My mind, overflowing with thoughts of her, was a torment, a cruel and beautiful landscape populated by ghosts.

I remembered her laughter, the way she tilted her head when she was thinking, the comforting weight of her hand in mine. I remembered the day we planted the lilies, her dirt-stained fingers, and the vibrant joy she found in nurturing life. The memories of her are too potent, too raw. They were a balm and a brand, soothing the wound while simultaneously searing it open again.

I finally stood, the cold floor shocking my bare feet. I knew I had to break the cycle, to stop living in this perpetual daydream. But how? How do you exorcise a ghost that lives not in the garden but within the deepest recesses of your mind?

Slowly, deliberately, I walked towards the door, my hand trembling as I reached for the handle. I would go outside. I would tend to the roses, maybe even plant something new. I wouldn’t be able to see her, but maybe, by immersing myself in the world she loved, I could find a small piece of her, not in the tortured fantasy of my mind, but in the tangible beauty of the garden itself.

The sun warmed my face as I stepped outside, and I felt her carried on the breeze, whispered in the rustling leaves, and blooming in the heart of every single flower. It was too much for me to bear. I ran back inside, leaving a trail of tears, and unwillingly succumbed to the prison of my mind.