Confessions of Wholeness (or: The Song of Windsoul)

Confessions of Wholeness (or: The Song of Windsoul)

I need to tell the truth of what this feels like, because it doesn’t fit into the words people usually give grief or divorce or loneliness. It isn’t simply sadness. It isn’t weakness. It isn’t an inability to be alone. I know how to be alone. I have always known.

What is missing is wholeness.

Not completeness of self — not the idea that I am half a person without another. I am whole in myself in that way. I breathe. I think. I feel. I choose. I endure. This is not about needing someone to finish me.

It is about the loss of coherence.

When I was married, when I loved him, when we were walking whatever road we were walking — even when it was imperfect, even when it widened or bent or paused — my life felt whole. Not finished. Not resolved. But whole. There was a shared horizon. A future tense that oriented the present. A home that was not just walls but inhabited meaning.

Even when he was gone, even when we were apart, even in previous separations, there was still a path between us. A road that led to him. A road that led him home. Silence was never empty — it was inhabited. The house knew what it was for.

Now the road is gone.

Not damaged. Not blocked. Destroyed.

And with it went the sense of home as a living thing. What remains is shelter. Responsibility. Maintenance. A kind of storage unit of self — where I keep my body, my thoughts, my history — but not a place that receives me. Coming home now is heavier. Everything is heavier. Not because life is harder in obvious ways, but because everything must now be carried alone.

I fill the space with sound — television, music, voices — not to avoid myself, but to simulate presence. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it helps me sleep. Sometimes I even like the silence. But when the noise stops, the truth returns: there is no one on the other side of the quiet. No shared field of being. No witness to the return.

It has been a year and a half since the separation. A year since the divorce. And I am still sad. Still grieving. Still carrying a crater where a shared life once cohered. People speak of time as if it dissolves love on a schedule. It doesn’t. Love dissolves only through mourning — and this is not just the loss of a person, but the loss of a future that felt eternal.

Every time I try to imagine what comes next, he appears — not as fantasy, not as denial, but as gravity. Every future without him feels thinner, less saturated, less meaningful. I can imagine logistics. I can imagine moving to a new city, changing my surroundings, reshaping my days. But none of that restores what was lost.

Because the problem is not place.

The problem is presence.

What we shared — what flowed between us — was not ordinary love. It was not merely emotional or romantic. It was something thick. Dense. Consecrated. It felt like ambrosia — the nectar of the gods — a substance that made life itself feel eternal even while knowing it was fragile.

I did not feel this before him.
Nothing has felt like it since.

Dating now feels like swimming in water when I once lived immersed in gold. People are kind. Attractive. Interesting. But the divine density is absent. The fire is not there. The shared field does not form. And I am not looking to replace him. I am not trying to plug someone else into his shape. That would be a betrayal of what was real.

What I am missing is not companionship.

It is the wholeness of home.
The purpose of a shared future.
The sense that love itself was an orientation — not something conditional, not something fragile, but something eternal.

My love for him was unconditional. Truly. Not as an idea, but as a lived reality. There was nothing he could do that would make me withdraw love. Nothing that would sever the bond on my side. And perhaps that was part of the problem — to love without condition in a world that treats love as contingent, revisable, terminable.

Divorce shattered more than a marriage.
It shattered the grammar of love I lived by.

Because how do you reconcile unconditional love with final separation?
How do you believe someone loves you after they divorce you?
How do they believe they love you when silence replaces presence?

The world no longer supports the love that still lives in me. And that contradiction is almost impossible to metabolize.

So I walk through my days doing what I can. I write. I build. I serve. I see friends. I date casually. I laugh. I function. And then I return to myself, alone in my physicality, alone in my home, and the weight settles again.

Not because solitude is wrong — but because home used to be relational, and now it is logistical.

I feel directionless not because I lack imagination, but because the only path that ever felt truly rich, truly meaningful, truly divine — the one we were walking together — no longer exists. And I have not yet found another road that carries that kind of life in it.

The only place that still holds coherence is the path of the gods — priesthood, devotion, service to something larger than the self. Not because it solves the ache, but because it allows love to remain unconditional. Eternal. Untouchable by human rupture.

Perhaps I am between selves.
The old identity dissolved with the marriage.
The new one has not yet formed.

I am standing in the liminal — holding what still feels sacred, not because it is the destination, but because it is the railing that keeps me from falling while I cross a bridge I cannot yet see the end of.

I do not know what the future holds.
I do not know if the nectar returns — in this life, in this form, in any form.
I only know that what I lost was real.
That the wholeness I miss was not an illusion.
And that loving this deeply is not a mistake, even if it leaves me wounded.

This is not a plea for rescue.
It is not a refusal to live.
It is a confession.

Of love that was whole.
Of home that was inhabited.
Of silence that once breathed with another soul.

And of a heart that still remembers what eternity felt like —
even while learning how to survive in a thinner world.