The Collector
written by: Griffin
i have watched millions upon millions perish throughout my life
if life can be called as such
some go gently, some violently, some somewhere in between
but this one
this one makes its entrance before i do
the rope tight around his neck
the chair laying there on the floor
i see the way his shoulders are slacked
the way his hands are no longer in a fist
he’s been gone for quite a while now
he must have hurt
really hurt
the kind that makes your inside go hollow
that turns your own thoughts against you
until you can no longer tell which thoughts are yours
and which are the weight of everything you’ve been carrying.
i wonder, how many nightsi did he lie awake
trying to find any reason to push on
only for the thoughts to scatter like cockroaches once the lights are on?
how many times did he consider reaching out
before pulling back because reaching out was burdensome
and prolonged the inevitable?
i feel something strange
as if i almost feel what he went through
to break like this
but then it passes
i see the soul
luminous, lightweight and grieving
possibly confused whether to expect heaven or hell now
it matters not what he expects
it matters not how real his suffering was
or that death was the only language he could truly speak
my job does not pause for compassion
or wait for someone to have suffered more or less than what they deserved.
i collect souls like i collect them all
without approval or condemnation
mercy or malice
just the simple faithfulness of a job
that requires a willingness to understand
that some people simply do not want to stay
and their leaving is not a failure of their own
but surrendering to the weight of the world around them.
i reach out
his soul comes to me
and i move on to the next
carrying with me the reminder that this one hurt
in ways that couldn’t be jotted down on paper
or forgiven.
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