It's poisonous.

We are creatures of habit because they die hard. Yes, clichés. I assume it is called that since calling it overly spoken facts is a bit cumbersome when trying to explain these simple truths, our truths really. This past year has pushed my boundaries of comfort way beyond anywhere I could have imagined and I have been avidly throwing clichés around to try and soften the blows, to find some form of solace in the painful darkness that rolled over me like a vicious unforgiving wave, like a tsunami ripping everything from its roots and dragging it away.

It worked. Most of the time at least. Other times I wanted to rip the words from my own mouth and shove it down others whilst screaming at the top of my lungs. I still do. But I didn’t, I can’t, nor shall I.

Though amongst all this solitude and anguish something appeared. It was not presented with a halo or engulfed with light. It was like a dove with a broken wing. Approach was heeded with caution yet the dove did not try to frantically fly away and escape, instead it sought comfort. You could sense it knew the risk of not absconding, the risk that those who approach might do so with ill intentions. Yet the dove remained and accepted that risk without fear, sharing warmth without judgement.

I suppose you can say something amazing happens when you least expect it.

Yes, clichés.

It is like poison we strew and feed on. A poison concocted with hope and inevitability, with fear and ambiguity. We share it to help those around us to show that we understand and that the loneliness is not theirs to bear. We drink it ourselves so that we can find the light in the morrow.

And it is poison I will continue to consume because it is worth it. It must be.