This is not a poem.
This is a quiet voice,
Slow and soothing. It says to you:
We escape.
We all escape in our own ways.
We start by searching endlessly
for the way that works for each of us.
The mother who has lost a child finds
an online virtual world into which she
retreats every day.
The son who has lost a daughter
immerses himself into World Cup football.
The husband who becomes a sipper
of single malt scotch.
Once these escapes are settled upon,
communication ceases. Living ceases.
And pain achieves the illusion of ceasing.
But if we listen to our bodies,
even though we burn in pain,
our legs want to move, our eyes want to see,
our ears want to listen, and our thoughts
beg for silence; oh how necessary
is that silence in our head.
Go outside of your head.
Go outside of your room,
outside of your house.
One thousand little details will distract you,
and you will wade into the flux of life again.
You will be okay.