There’s an initial impact, a blow: what you saw and felt and heard causing such a reflexive flinching back inward, that you find your Self shrunken down to a whisper, far from the windows and doors of your eyes and ears and skin.
Grief is heavy.
It’s exhausting.
It weighs down the back of you neck and your shoulders like a lead scarf, heavy and poisonous. Holding you there, hunkered down in the basement of yourself, so far away, so much burning space between you and the Real outside. You can hear life happening, faintly, from far away. Unable to communicate with the outside world except ineffectually, with great effort.
Will you ever re-inhabit the entirety of yourself? Ever return to fill yourself from the core all the way to the outside edges and have enough Self left to overflow outward to affect the world around you?
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