Grief is an incredibly isolating feeling. The best way I can describe it is like you’re sitting on a bench in New York City’s most isolated park. You know there’s a world out there, people bustling from one place to the other, jaywalking their way to where they’re going. But, you, you’re just sitting there watching it all happen.
You’re sitting in your body, but that mind of yours is a million spaces away. Living in a past that you just wish would make it into your future.
Then the whole fucking world caves in on you when you realize it isn’t going to happen. You tend to gasp for breathe and you breathe into your blanket scarf, just as a reminder that you’re still breathing.
You’re still here. Life goes on. People kept shifting and moving. You’re still here and alive and capable of living. In that moment, you don’t know what’s scarier — that there’s a future without the one you love or that in this particular moment you almost forgot it.
(This is for you out there who needs a reminder that you’re not alone.)
