journal · prose

It isn’t now, though.

We expect too much of people, when their grief is not our grief. We are all at least a little bit broken, a little irreparable, irreversible. But we are not allowed to be lost. Only found, always found, in fine form and condition, ready to make the next move, take the next step toward happiness and success, and forget: whatever was, whatever you are or might possibly be that does not live up to that impossibly perfect expectation of bonds and normalcy. And it would be nice just to let it all go for awhile. Take a few steps backward and rest, or scream, or cry, and not worry about everyone or anyone worrying or saying, “Keep going. Forget it. It will be just fine.” And perhaps, in the end, it will be just fine. At the very least of things, it will appear that way.


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