Somehow it comes back to me, the forbidden knowledge. And the elves in the garden start developing voices. And the mushroom speaks again.
Maybe the days are laced with more than a little overwhelm as you navigate the missing of what once was, or the ache for who is no longer here.
This is also the loneliness of not feeling seen. The isolation of not following the horde, of not always being understood.
J.K. Rowling worked with archetypes in 'Harry Potter', and portrayed this concept of polarity in the relationship between the protagonist and his nemesis.
In the buttery, iron taste of the aftermath, food will not fill me. A pill will not clear me of this, and sleep does not always lend itself to rest. The frothing surface of lingering promises shields the unknown sediment, sinking below. Every lie we tell ourselves haunts me, ripping apart my heart.