is this what it feels like to cease grieving -- a tenuous brightness, a trembling wariness of the sun, of nature, beauty unmarred and soft singing. is this what it feels like to surface on a placid sea, without the impulse to gasp for air. no messy sputtering and cartoonish flailing. instead a calm, quiet inhale, as you open your eyes, blinking blearily... and as your vision adjusts, you see land on the horizon. there’s still a remnant of guilt, an enticing whisper; ‘mourn… still; continue. i am warm and safe. you know me, only me’ -- instead, a filling of lungs again; resigned, with love. they say your first loss is the worst, that it is impossible for you to feel a grief of that degree twice. i disagreed. i have cawed my ache into the deaf impenetrable darkness countless times, ruined myself on substances tangible and intangible, desperately seeking respite. pause. when the only resolution is complete immersion. irresolute catharsis. manageable continuation. then... unexpected opportunities and momentary forgettings [often caught red-handed by a self-conscious sentry, there to ensure continued entropy]. but, i now realise, each loss -- be it of a former self, of dreams crushed in youth, of dear dear dear inestimably loved irrevocable people -- each was imperceptibly easier to navigate than the last... i almost wish i could go back to the first; smother myself in the depths again, caress despair; oldest, most intimate friend. to reaffirm my knowledge of my own emotional depth and intensity, my loyalty and devotion -- to remind myself i am still capable of this intense feeling, of mourning them the way they each deserve to be mourned. of being overwhelmingly gloriously hellishly present in pain. there is a despicable element of selfishness in this. i know i can never sever this ability, nor succumb to a numb, subterranean half-life. the strongest tether, the fear, is that i don’t know myself outside of grief. it has scented and coloured all of my days for as long as i can remember. how awfully dull, how insipid, life would seem without this anguish. i can’t see a plausible, a positive and fulfilling and warm and sweet and loving and welcoming alternative. i am a coward, afraid of the unknown, distrustful of joy and happiness and love. i cannot see it with my naked eyes, but i sense it. it’s there, whispering, calling to me, intermingled with the voice of loss. can one ever truly be rid of grief. can one leave it behind... i doubt it, no. this is not a ceasing, but an ebbing; a reluctant acclimation; to no longer languish... i am surfacing and, with these bereaved limbs, it’s time to swim ashore.