It's interesting how loss and grief work, it really is. Such opposing realities that are always functioning together. The former a lot of times happens suddenly, tearing away what we hold dear so it can never again be within our grasping fingers and so, almost instantaneously it is gone; the conversations that would've been, the laughs, the smiles that would be shared, the heartaches, the strife; how do you measure the amount of life that could've lived? Of soul that could've loved? Loss, so terminal, so finite. I bet there are a lot of hearts out there that wish grief was just as terminal as their loss. That the pain could be felt in an instant rather than for the rest of their lives. Pain. Most often confused as the most difficult part of grief but, to be honest, I think it's acceptance, it's that moment when you have to decide to move on from what has happened, it's that moment where the grief has to stop, where you're supposed to be okay. We put ourselves in an impossible position because we are told that we are to be okay after the mourning is over. Truth is, grief doesn't work that way, grief, beautifully juxtaposes loss because it isn't finite, it doesn't have a time frame, and if you have ever lost someone then you know grief is impossibly infinite. I'm writing this now because I thought I was okay, I thought a month has gone by and I won't have panic attacks anymore, and I won't have the realization hit me like a ton of bricks anymore, and I won't have to cry myself to sleep anymore. I thought I had grieved, I thought I had accepted. Loss and grief. Worlds apart but torturing none the less. My friend Drew was a spirit to marvel at, with a contagious smile and an unshakable peace. I know now that I won't ever be the same because of him, and I'm okay with that. Because I loved him, as a friend and as a brother, and that's all I can give him right now, and that's also okay, because love liberates. Be liberated in love.
