(no subject)
"They" say it - never to someone actually directly in the throes of grief because they'd probably stab you for the favor of the platitude - but out into the grieving ether sometimes:
"It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."
That the degree to which love enriches your life can never be overshadowed by the pain you feel when it is untimely ripped from your heart. That you will heal from the loss, but the love will never leave you.
And maybe it's true. And maybe I believe it's true, because if I didn't, wouldn't I be bricking myself in right now? Wouldn't I cast in my towel for this whole love game, knowing that I am destined, ultimately, to lose? We all love, knowing - consciously or not - that a strong possibility exists for loss. Perhaps the love will fade mutually, the most ideal possibility, perhaps the love will end with a traumatic fight, but worst, perhaps the world will simply rip your loved one out of the living realm without so much as a chance to whisper the words good bye. Perhaps, even, your best friend will take it upon himself to do that.
And it's tempting. It's tempting to build that wall, to refuse to open myself up to anyone, to cultivate my misanthropy. But I know my life would be empty. I know that... I won't say it. I know I couldn't do that. I know I won't. I know I will continue to love and risk loss, every day of my life, and every day I will wager my heart on the bet that the love will always overwhelm the loss.
But still. Still.
Sometimes I don't believe it. When I cry so hard I dry heave at the realization that Frank has been dead for 453 days and will continue to be dead every day for the rest of my life, and that many of those days I will actually have to realize that he is gone because it still doesn't make a goddamn bit of sense and so I will find myself sitting in front of my computer at 2:30 in the afternoon, queasy from the candy I'd stuffed myself with earlier that would've tasted like chalk had I known, pulling my phone out of my bag and answering the call from an unknown chicago number and hearing Alisa's voice I've got some bad news, sweetie and finding that those thousands of days I thought I still had to respond to that last e-mail he sent me thirteen hours before he fell to his death are gone and lost, you know... I'm just not so sure.
Those times. These times, I would trade it. I lied, I said I wouldn't. I said I wouldn't trade a drop of my experience with him to ease the pain.
But I would. I would trade it all.
I love him. But I would let him go forever to make this stop.
"It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."
That the degree to which love enriches your life can never be overshadowed by the pain you feel when it is untimely ripped from your heart. That you will heal from the loss, but the love will never leave you.
And maybe it's true. And maybe I believe it's true, because if I didn't, wouldn't I be bricking myself in right now? Wouldn't I cast in my towel for this whole love game, knowing that I am destined, ultimately, to lose? We all love, knowing - consciously or not - that a strong possibility exists for loss. Perhaps the love will fade mutually, the most ideal possibility, perhaps the love will end with a traumatic fight, but worst, perhaps the world will simply rip your loved one out of the living realm without so much as a chance to whisper the words good bye. Perhaps, even, your best friend will take it upon himself to do that.
And it's tempting. It's tempting to build that wall, to refuse to open myself up to anyone, to cultivate my misanthropy. But I know my life would be empty. I know that... I won't say it. I know I couldn't do that. I know I won't. I know I will continue to love and risk loss, every day of my life, and every day I will wager my heart on the bet that the love will always overwhelm the loss.
But still. Still.
Sometimes I don't believe it. When I cry so hard I dry heave at the realization that Frank has been dead for 453 days and will continue to be dead every day for the rest of my life, and that many of those days I will actually have to realize that he is gone because it still doesn't make a goddamn bit of sense and so I will find myself sitting in front of my computer at 2:30 in the afternoon, queasy from the candy I'd stuffed myself with earlier that would've tasted like chalk had I known, pulling my phone out of my bag and answering the call from an unknown chicago number and hearing Alisa's voice I've got some bad news, sweetie and finding that those thousands of days I thought I still had to respond to that last e-mail he sent me thirteen hours before he fell to his death are gone and lost, you know... I'm just not so sure.
Those times. These times, I would trade it. I lied, I said I wouldn't. I said I wouldn't trade a drop of my experience with him to ease the pain.
But I would. I would trade it all.
I love him. But I would let him go forever to make this stop.