Bookmark #514

I do not have anything else to say about grief except that there comes the point when it becomes a muted tone in the background. Like the September sky, it takes a dull blue hue and stays far away from the big picture but is also a part of it. The parts inadvertently broken and hastily put together still have cracks in them, but like how things that once irk you become invisible given enough time, the cracks have disappeared too. The ones which have not yet done so are covered in plants and leaves. Anything that breaks becomes a good home for a plant. That has to mean something. I may not be sure what that means, but it says something much bigger than me and my life.

But that is all I can say about grief. I do not see much of it; the little that is perennial is so invisible that I could not tell you which parts of me still hurt. Beyond that, all I see is life, sprouting in all corners of my being, all cracks I could not fill, and all days of future and past. At some point, talking about grief becomes like the sixth drink you have at a party; there is little reason for it, and you do not much need it, so you realise it is only going with the flow. Like all drinks, one must know how much grief one can handle. Like all booze shared with the right people, one may realise they can take more than they thought.

Now, I wait ardently for the year to end. There is, of course, no reason for this want. In many ways, I want this year to end only because I would not want to entertain the possibility of things going wrong. Even preservation can wish for the end of things. If I could, I would like to make camp and stay here forever.

But we must be careful when wishing for things; I am a realistic optimist. As quickly as things can get better, they can also get worse. I shall make a statement as bold as this once we tuck December away into an archive of things that have happened to us and, if life is willing, of how we happened to things.

That is all the more reason to relish in this calm joy of muted greens and subtle blues between summer and autumn. It may get worse; let us laugh now. We will not remember our worries, but the echoes of our joy will always pull us through.