Dear Friend

A blog dedicated to thoughts shared with a friend.

[lovecian]

My dearest heart,

I write to you with a solemnity.

Where there should be fear, there is understanding. Where there should be anxiety, there is acceptance.

Humanity is fickle. We live and we die. There is a whole treasure trove of lifetimes and events between the two, but that is the nature of humanity. A fickle existence from birth to death, but it is many a lifetime for those who breathe between the start and the end.

I used to fear the normalcies of life. To be fair, they're often things that ought not be normal, but they are the norm.

I used to be anxious over them, heartbroken, even.

Alas, I have lived and I have learned. It's a strange thing, acceptance. It's not that you stop caring, it's that you understand the humanity of being human.

I hold no ill will, but my resentment grows. I understand now that my resentment is a result of my expectations. My expectations are a result of my actions. My actions are birthed from my standards. These standards exist from my values and principles.

It is not a fault nor a weakness to trust others. Trust is good. What's not good is holding resentment when trust no longer lives here.

Resentment is anger unignited.

There are many ways to free resentment, but substantially fewer that are born out of action rather than reaction.

Act, don't react. That is the key.

I find myself acting in a way that is foreign to my life, but familiar to my being.

The resentment will hold because one can talk until blue in face, but it's worth a nickel on a yacht when there's no real change.

There has been change. Not within the person I love and trusted, but within me.

See, my dearest heart, it is with heaviness that I must accept the truth. The truth isn't always pretty, but it does set you free.

We often think of freedom as getting our way. That's not it, is it? Liberty is to be who you are without discrimination, fear, or threat. Liberty is not life without challenge, hardship, or consequence.

Liberty is choice, even when those choices hurt.

I once chose Death. I once craved it, sought it, like a lost child seeking their mother.

And then life happened. Life happened and it filled me in ways and light that I didn't believe possible.

I wasn't looking for it. It just happened. I woke up one day, and I was done with the cards I'd been dealt.

Fascinating game, cards. There are so many! Uno, President and Arsehole, Poker, Black Jack . . . so many.

The thing is, you can leave the table if you no longer want to play cards. In fact, you can leave the whole bloody casino nevermind the table.

I found the trees, the water, the flowers, the air. Who knew there was life outside?

My dearest heart, it's not a mournfulness that looms, but rather a fact of life. And with this fact, I must acknowledge the unpleasantness.

Ah, yes. To realise the person you trusted more than anything is no longer trustworthy is unpleasant to say the least.

It is, however, different this time. It's unpleasant because humanity, like life, is temporary. The only sure things are death and taxes, as they say.

I am sad, and I will grieve at this revelation. However, I won't hold resentment. In fact, it is the building of resentment that makes action so imperative. I have no building permits, you see. In this case, I've been promised the order, and it's proven to be undelivered . . .

Let's not intellectualise. I trusted a dear friend, much like I trust you, dear heart. And sometimes, because we're human, friendships end.

I'm saddened by the reality, and yet I understand it.

Perhaps it was timing, perhaps it was life. Whatever it was, it was worth every second.

I'll never forget her face, nor the way she held me. I will never forget her words, her assurance, her vitality.

What I will forget, dear heart, is the repeated proof that sometimes there comes an end.

I love my best friend, but I cannot trust her. In the darkness, I needed a hand. I needed a light. I needed her. I trusted her to be there.

I'm sad that she couldn't be. I'm grateful for all we had. I'll mourn this loss and grieve it fully - she was more than I'd ever had.

Sometimes, dear heart, we are blessed with the most amazing people who help us pull ourselves from the darkest depths. And sometimes, even friendships so sacred, have a time limit.

Where there is no trust, there is nothing. It's a melancholic experience to realise you can no longer trust the one person who helped you trust again. However, gratitude never dies.

I'll always be grateful for her, my light, my love. And I'll always remember our era fondly and with favour.

I love her, and I always will.

It's a strange thing, acceptance. You realise the impermanence of it all, and when it ends, you can still appreciate it.

Love,

Always,

Cian.

[lovecian]

Dear Friend,

You hold me in anguish. It is not a distasteful space - no. It is grace in which my anguish is placed. It is love, it is life, it is vibrance. . .

It is a love, a life, a vibrance that I never knew - until you.

When you find your everything, you appreciate it with every fibre of your fucking being.

Every second, every day, every moment you're graced with.

You wake up in the morning, worn, beaten, and weathered by the world - by life. Your life.

You wake up, and you think of your everything - your heart, your soul, the very thing that makes you ache and die inside each day.

You'll continue to ache and die each day, because that's how consuming love is - real love. Pure love. True love. An unconditional, an undying flame that burns in life when you are you, and burns in defiance when you are lost.

I suffered, and ached, and died each day. And I still do - every moment, still true. But then you appeared - a new suffering, a new ache, a new death. I wanted it all to end - tried, as I did, it never worked.

And you walked in . . .

You find that thing, that person, that life line - and you remind yourself; when I can't do it for me, I do it for this.

You are my this, lux mea.

You are the light in the darkest storm, you are the life in blood and cuts born of forlorn.

You are the grace, the softness, the life that breathes into me.

You are the continuing breath when life strangles me.

I vowed to never rely on another, and then you came.

Wild, honest, true - I've never questioned life, not with you.

I've cut, stabbed, acted, and injected - time and again, yet Death neglected.

Every scar, every pain, every trauma deep in every vein - they become nothingness, they become powerless.

I craved death for so long - you brought life, so strong.

You weren't perfect, only real. You aren't a saviour, yet you heal.

I thought I understood, I thought I knew - but it wasn't living, not before you.

You walked in, human and hurt - just like me, but you keep me from dirt.

It's simple, you see?

Your existence keeps life in me.

There isn't much I wouldn't do, but that's the thing - just existing holds you.

Just the way you do the same - your existence suspends the pain.

I could write for years, and I likely will - you lux mea, my heart, the thrill.

You, lux mea, are the light at the starting tunnel.

I love you, more than words could say.

I love you; it's how I can stay.

I love you; you showed me the way.

Love,

Always,

Cian

[lovecian]

Dear Friend,

I've been thinking . . .

I don't think we, as a society, fully understand the threat that the trans community poses.

Trans women are actively choosing to be women. Real women. Not drag, not a day in the life - actively choosing.

Same with trans men - not a day in the life, but actively choosing to be men. Real men.

Regardless of your gender identity or feelings when it comes to the trans community - I think we all need to stop and properly reflect.

Women are constantly abused, murdered, assaulted, and reduced to orifices or organs.

Men are constantly berated, ostracised, openly hated, and seen as the apex predator to not only women, but children and animals, too.

Can you imagine the amount of courage it takes for someone born with a certain gender to say, "fuck it, I'm going to be who I am"?

We have people actively choosing to be themselves despite femicide, extreme misandry, misogyny, patriarchy, assault and abuse.

If you, as a human, understand the dangers of being whatever your gender is, come across a person who was brave enough to say "this is who I am despite the risks - I am choosing me", can we really, in good conscience condemn that person and persecute them for choosing to be who they are despite very clear and very gendered struggles?

I don't think we, as a society, fully understand the threat that trans people pose.

Imagine being so brave, strong, and desperate to be who you are that you say, "to hell with it; come what may. I'll face it, in all my authenticity".

There's something to be said about it. There's something to be understood.

There's something to be made space for.

Trans people are people who deserve space, a voice, and rights.

Just like the rest of us.

[lovecian]

Dear Friend,

I know we're distant and in limbo, and it sucks. However, we talk about rifts between us so that they remain temporary. With you, I feel safe enough to still love you even when we are . . . whatever this is. Misalignment? Disagreement? Space? Rift? Healthy and balanced individual and collective growth?

Anyway.

So, apparently the Greek word for "thousand" is "chilioi". And because quite a few languages steal from each other; the French changed the spelling to "kilo".

Hence 10k = 10 thousand. I'm about 59 000 grams. That means individual grams make things. That means there's space between things. Maybe that's why we have the capacity to heal, change, and grow?

59 000 grams of who knows what came together and decided to stay together for decades, just to make me. And here I am, struggling to commit to a regular and consistent workout schedule.

That being said, however many thousands of what what's are your make up, I just want to say thanks. It can be pretty hard to keep everything together, so I'm really grateful you keep doing it. Having you here is really something special that I struggle to articulate.

If you break it down - 59 000 parts of me love you. That's how fucking amazing you are. You literally wield the power to have hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of grams of whatever the fuck love you. You technically have a metric ton of love, and it's all because of who you are.

Damn, girl.

Love,

Always,

Cian.

[lovecian]

And sometimes, there's an excruciating pain. Sometimes, it's like the world is going to end.

And, sometimes - it's like you found that which is good.

My toxic trait:

I want to cosplay a man.

Not for comic con or some shit.

No. I just want to know what the difference is when I command a room as a woman, and when I command a room as a man.

I want to be intimate with the difference - from both sides. The similarities, too.

I want to know what it's like to be me, and you.

[lovecian]

Dear Friend,

It is my innermost thoughts that I must share with you.

Before you, there was no one.

I got my Colours. That was when I broke.

Until tonight, decades later, I didn't actually know what that meant.

It meant nothing to me. I'd excelled somewhat. To this day, my parents have never seen me play.

Nothing good I did was a big deal.

Why would this be?

I could have gotten scholarships.

Growing up, I, was a burden.

So much so, that before age 10, I'd lent a good chunk of my university fund to my parents so we wouldn't lose the house.

A couple of years later, I got my Colours.

Scholarships mean having to pay less for your kid, doesn't it? Scholarships mean less financial strain on parents, doesn't it?

Scholarships mean better lives, doesn't it?

I thought it was nothing.

Like that one time I made it to the semi-finals in a modeling competition.

That week before the accident when I was picked for League netball.

Back then, it was missing a match, nothing more. It was a bummer, that's it.

That could have translated into Colours for two sports.

I never went back to any of it after the accident - there was no point.

They've, to this day, never seen me play.

I was gifted a fairy dress for a modeling competition when I was going on nine.

My boobs had started growing in, so when I entered the same modeling competition when I was going on 10; I understood the importance of tight dress pants, and a decent buckle. My crisp, white three-quarter sleeve office shirt plunged just enough to show a "healthy" amount of the hint of a cleavage.

I liked how the 3-inch Spanish heels made me feel tall.

They were so pretty.

I was going on 10.

Mother and Father came to the modeling competitions every year for three years.

I failed every time.

Brother started modeling soon after. He got head shots and an agency.

We would go all over the province at all hours of the weekend.

I did the same competition over and over; no coaching, deviaton, or entry into another competition. . .

I don't know if I'm resentful, bitter, hurt, or all three.

I did complain. Fuck, I would scream at them and get into rages. I wanted them to come see me play.

"We're not like your rich friend's parents - we work."

Mother was a stay-at-home mom with a home based business that made enough money for our family to buy milk and bread when the monthly crisis hit.

I didn't know you could take time off work until I got my first job . . .

With just a little support and interest from my parents; our lives as a family could have been vastly different.

I need to believe it's ignorance.

No sane parent would choose to struggle instead of supporting their child just enough to milk them of their achievements - right?

It had to have been ignorance.

Love,

Always,

Cian

[lovecian]

Prepositions with Swag was Googled. About is a stellar word.

Meanwhile, swag is to acquire goods by unlawful means.

This is a weirdly accurate rendition of the chaos of English grammar that ought to be experienced.

There's literally no point; about is just so flavourful.

I'm about to.

It's about damn time.

Gwen Stefani.

Flutter about.

Just about.

What about?

Go about.

What are we doing? What am I doing?

I guess that's about it.

An Ode to About: It's All About About

[lovecian]

[lovecian]

Dear friend,

It is a curious thing - energy.

We think of this as electricity, but also as what we give or receive.

I, myself, am guilty of thinking of energy as a socket alone - something to power a boombox, something to power that which isn't sentient.

Alas, I'm constantly reminded of the other. Energy is, indeed, the socket to power. I oft forget that my energy doesn't warrant a bill monthly.

None of our energy does.

We forget. I think women especially, but men, too. We forget - I'm not here to power the boombox, I'm not here to power the heat. I'm not here to power anything but me.

It's sad, you see? It's sad that we, as humans, forget that the less energy we spend, the more it nourishes us.

It's like Jung said - when we remove ourselves from that which is toxic, it dies.

Jung spoke mostly of people, of dynamics between us. We hold the power, all of us. We can choose to be toxic and feed off of others, or we can choose to be safe.

When you're safe, the toxic frequently feed off you.

Vampires are real, you see, but not in the manner of Louie and Lestat, Carlisle or Edward - but in the manner of energy.

We can be safe without being toxic.

We can be safe without being the feed for vampires.

We can be safe.

We're often conditioned to hold, bear, and take on the burdens of others. This is merely conditioning. It is not truth, it is not obligation - it is not us.

We can, safely, wholly, and healthily remove ourselves.

We can prioritise and care for ourselves.

This is not to be selfish or to remove access from those we love and unify with. It is to know you are safe and comfortable saying no when you ought to.

A person, healthy and true, safe and just, will understand.

More often than not, it is not the other, but us.

Even with those who are good, those who are kind, those who are safe - we over-extend. We treat the safe with the leakage of wounds they did not instil. We treat them with the same expectations that others had of us . . .

A mournful existence this is. We allow our pain, our wounds, our conditioning, to narrate that which is meant to serve us.

To be healthy, to be safe.

It's a curious thing - energy.

We forget how sacred it is, and treat ourselves and others like a boombox.

We're not sockets, Dear Friend. We are live wires. And for those who matter, those whom we love and are loved by - we can become.

We are live wires, but we can be earth and ground, too.

Love,

Always,

Cian

[lovecian]

Dear Friend,

I've had a thought. I'm of a mind, at this time.

Life is nonsensical.

That's why we have religion, faith, and belief. They allow us to create the illusion of sense in it all.

Look at animals - they have no gods, no beliefs, no faith; yet there is order in the chaos that is nature.

We argue over free will - do we or don't we have it? Humans are animals. We just like to think that we are superior. We crave power and dominance not because we are powerful or dominant, but because we are powerless and insecure.

Prey in the wild instinctively know to run away.

Predators in the wild instinctively know they don't have to.

What do we do? We pretend. We pretend that we are the apex predator, then lash out when we are proven wrong.

Within the human race alone, we scramble for power and dominance. Life is a ladder, and we're all scrambling to get to the top.

As soon as we have some position of power or dominance, we disempower others to hold the ladder fast. We cannot climb and keep the ladder secure at the same time, not realising that our fragile ascent is reliant on the compliance of those who we confine to holding the ladder steady.

There are those who have no use or interest in the ladder. We remain in a similar position to those holding it steady. We like to think we are unaffected or not participating, but we also know that's not true.

We are on the same ground as those holding the ladder. That, or we have an escalator or lift built on something unsavoury.

The ladder is the illusion of power.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely, yet we sit here and debate the possibility of free will.

We are all born with free will. There are just some in this world who are better at using theirs to absolve the rest of us of ours.

We've created a society where our level of free will is dependent on our level of power and dominance.

Naturally, those who hold less societal and systemic power and dominance are less able to retain their sense of free will.

Corrupt a birthright into a privilege attained only by power and dominance and of course there'll be a pit where free will doesn't seem to exist.

And, we are the masses. Convince the masses that they can't have what the select few do, and you'll create a vat of hopelessness and helplessness.

Julius Caesar was one of many who succeeded in the practice of Divide and Conquer.

Divide humanity from its free will, and you will Conquer it.

It's a tale as old as time.

Instill hatred - nonsensical hatred in the hearts of each. Not for those who still hold their free will intact, but for those just like them.

Divide them by sex, race, religion, and creed. Convince them that those just like them are their enemy; fuel the system with this.

Give them false hope - if they run the rat race hard enough and hate completely enough, they too will climb the ladder. Those who they hate, those who don't run the race hard enough - those are the ones who will hold the ladder for them.

Dangle hope and dreams from the rungs - the more they reach, the better chance they have of stepping up.

Never let them see that there is no end to the ladder.

Never let them see that their ladder won't get them to the top - it'll only continue to support those already at the top - reinforcing their position instead of providing freedom from what's down below.

Ironic - the average person has significantly less of a support system than the select few, yet the average person is the very reason the select few have their support system.

Divide humanity from its sense, and Conquer their free will.

Convince them that struggle, stravation, and hardship are the necessary sacrifice to keep the system in place, to benefit them and keep them safe.

Convince them that the system is only their oppressor because they didn't race, try, and hate hard enough. They don't blame the right people.

We seldom do.

It's the other that is the cause of our misfortune - women, immigrants, taxes, those who don't confrom. They are the cause of our misfortune - who else could it be?

Convince them to point the finger at one another, never up.

Convince them that up is sacred, pure, where they'll go if they try hard enough to be good enough.

Convince them that down is evil, impure, where they'll go if they don't comply.

Convince them they are at their bottom because of their own flaws and shortcomings - convince them that they must first repent and pay the price before rising.

Distract them - up cannot thrive without down. A tree cannot grow if it's roots are not deep in the ground.

A bird cannot survive unless it touches the ground.

A plane won't keep touching the skies if it doesn't come back down regularly.

Down isn't where evil lives. Down is where rest is, down is where sustinance is, down is where life thrives.

Distract them - don't let them question why the fruits of the work and obedience from the bottom must be sent to the top.

Up - up is where the air gets thin.

Up is unsustainable.

Up cannot be without down.

Up must come down in order to continue existing.

Divide humanity of its sense, and Conquer its free will.

Convince them that if the select few fail, falter, or fall it will be detrimental to the human race.

Convince them that it is the select few who are given the birthright to guide and govern them.

Convince them that they cannot exist or function without the select few.

Divide humanity of its sense, and Conquer their minds.

Convince them that the select few are saviours, rulers, gods.

Convince them that the select few are the chosen, and they must give the ultimate sacrifice for the chosen.

Whatever is asked of them - convince them it is for the greater good. Convince them that noncompliance must be met with hatred and punishment.

Cultivate their hate; instill a fear of being hated in them so rife they'll never question it.

Keep fuelling their doubt of free will, and blame the other for the lack of it.

Convince them their own shortcoming are why they have no free will.

Keep the wheel turning.

Keep the ladders enforced.

Distract them from how nonsensical it all is.

Divide humanity from its sense and you'll Conquer their humanity; keeping the meat sack machine running as you will, freely.

[lovecian]

Dear Friend,

Ginger biscuits and coffee remind me of a mother's love.

Not my mother's love. I still don't know what flavour that would be. Or if it exists.

They have to be chewy ginger biscuits and cheap coffee. The two warm flavours and contrasting textures feel like hope, warmth, safety. They're inspiring together.

I find myself catapulted into an emotional location that is familiar, but uncomfortable. Not because of the coffee and biscuits. The coffee and biscuits were what breathed life into me again.

Some days you sit and wonder if it was all a farce. If you overreacted. And then your present yanks you into a past so wholly, so violently, so . . .

I wrote in my Diary. My other confidant. I can still remember the tender age at which I found a friend and comfort in paper and pen. It is when I lose this ability, Dear Friend, that I know not all is well.

Words on pages is how I find my way back. To myself. To safety. To calm. To peace. I often wonder why it is I stray from it, as it is such a loving embrace.

Sometimes the words won't flow. This scares me. Perhaps empty pages are what remind me of my own hollow.

It's curious. We cannot escape ourselves, try as we might. And we cannot escape our own hollowness.

I don't think the hollow is hollow. I think, perhaps, life is so much that we must dig and continue to dig just so that there's enough space for it all. The experiences, the happenings, our feelings.

And then, one day, we wake up and it's a pit. Our own pit within us of our own making. So we try to fill it, and we all have vices.

The thing about vices is, they were probably once virtues or something similar. Something good. Like us, until we dug the pit.

Put a bottle of red wine in beef and you have a Bourguignon so rich, so flavoursome, so alive.

Put a bottle of wine in some people and they change - I change. And not into a full-bodied, rich, and scrumptious beef. Into something else - something not myself.

So we dig the pit because there isn't enough space, and then one day we wake up and realise there's too much space. Instead of digging up what we buried, we try to bury more to fill it.

Do we ever stop digging?

I don't think I do. Sometimes I need to make space because I can't deal with that right now. There's nowhere, within, to safely set it down.

No. That's not it. There is space within to safely set it down, I just don't always know how.

So, I dig a hole.

Louis Sachar famoulsy said, "digging holes builds character".

It rained after. It rained, so the holes would have been filled, would they have not?

So, what is the rain?

It is catharsis that I find in writing. Mental, emotional, psychological . . .

What blocks catharsis?

I wonder what the rain is. Knowing myself, and I do, I'll ponder this for a while yet. I'll ponder it through and through.

What is the rain?

God is in the rain.

The gods are in the rain.

I realise now - this can mean two things.

The gods themselves are in the drops.

The gods themselves are dancing in the rain.

I hope they are. Oh, I truly hope they are.

You see, Dear Friend, my deepest hope is that all that exists may feel the warmth, the brace, the gentleness, the life that is a mother's love.

I can taste it, in a cup of cheap coffee and a chewy ginger biscuit.

I can taste it.

It may not be my mother's love, but I can taste it.

What a wonderful life it is, after all.

Love,

Always,

Cian

[lovecian]

The dependence of humanity

Dear Friend,

I'm writing you with the ink of hypocrisy.

As people, we are so dependent on so much. I don't understand it.

They say that the more you heal, the more you lack empathy for those struggling with what you've overcome.

Over time, I'm realising how true that is.

Death and grief often go hand-in-hand. They're a couple as old as time; the very first ethically non-monogamous relationship we experience, I would think.

When there is death, there is often grief. But, sometimes, there is grief without death.

I think grieving that which is still alive is a wholly different experience. I think it leaves the door open for hope for far too long. Whether or not that hope becomes delusion is a completely different tale.

When there is death, I think many oscillate between bargaining and denial for quite some time.

Having grieved the living more than the dead, I realise the potency of this bargaining and denial.

Where I am now, I see the reason much more clearly - at least for myself.

If I were better, if I did this right - I'll do anything. These are words that echoed within me for far too long. Words stemming from grief and aimed at a god I no longer believe in. In the same breath, these words stemmed from grief, aimed at a father whose approval I no longer seek.

Interesting how experiencing grief over death and grief over the living are so similar, yet so different.

I don't understand why we are so afflicted when it comes to death. I think I used to understand how I was expected to be afflicted, but not _why_.

When I hear of people who were never the same after a death, who couldn't pick themselves up, it confuses and irritates me.

They died. It's not a surprise. Life is, effectively, a drawn out death sentence. It is the end we must all meet. Instead of being overjoyed by this, we fear it. I don't understand. We cry over it. We grieve and become incapacitated. Why?

I've heard of people who never stopped grieving and couldn't become themselves again after losing a loved one. I find it ridiculous. Love shouldn't come at the cost of losing yourself. Yes, it is the pain of death when someone we love and have become so aligned with no longer exists. But the notion that this effectively ends those who are still alive is ludicrous.

Perhaps I sound heartless, and maybe I truly don't understand death and grief. Neither are the enemy - they are our first companions. They are unavoidable. So, why are they so paralysing?

Imagine losing yourself so much that you can't function unless there is another.

I don't need to imagine it. I've survived the enmeshment of a dysfunctional family.

Perhaps that is my flaw? I grieve periodically, and hope still. I hope not because I think if I were better it would be different. I hope because I know I was never good enough for them. But I've always been good enough. I've always been enough. I've always been worthy and existed with inherent worth.

People try and chip that away from you, over and over. And then death happens. And in death, we lie.

They were such an amazing person, they were so loving, they were my strength and my rock.

We decide to idolise the person because we shouldn't speak ill of the dead.

When I die, I hope you tell the truth - if you're inclined to speak on my death, that is.

I wasn't always a ray of sunshine, I didn't always care, I didnt always light up a room. Some of these things may be true, but that's not who I am in totality.

Sometimes, my words drip with vengeance. Sometimes, my heart is black with rage.

Sometimes, I am a monster.

Be truthful when I die.

I love you more than anything in this world, Friend. And if you are to die first, I will once again feel what it is to have your soul obliterated with reckless abandon.

I will cry, and scream; I will beg and plead for just one more moment. One more hug, one more conversation. Perhaps a kiss? But the begging and pleading, the bargaining and anger will be in vain. I'll never have you back, not even for a moment.

What won't happen, is me collapsing into myself so fully that I, the living, no longer exist. My ability to live and thrive isn't dependent on your living. It's dependent on mine.

So, Dear Friend, I must apologise in advance.

If you are the first to go, I will continue to live after my crumbling. I'll rebuild; my tears the water, the heaviness of grief the cement, the pain the dirt.

I can't wallow in emptiness over death. I've done it before. It's silly to take death as a personal slight.

Why are we surprised? We knew this would happen.

Maybe not how or when, but we knew.

Perhaps there are some whose only cutting experience would be the death of someone they love. If that be the case, then my irritation will stick, but my heart will sing.

Your ultimate pain is because you loved - fully and deeply.

Alas, the world isn't always so kind. There are worse things than death. Pawpaw, survival, and the patriarchy, to name a few.

I have no right to judge what others feel. My emotions are my own, and their emotions are theirs alone.

It's just so disappointing to witness. It's as though we must only become that loss, that suffering, to prove love. We must only become that loss, that suffering, because we lost ourselves completely in another person.

I think it distasteful. People are not incubators, despite what some legislations may want you to believe.

I'm not talking about children, I'm talking about adults. A child experiencing loss - may the gods be with that child in comfort and safety. It is an awful thing to experience, regardless of age.

It's the adults I'm talking about, though.

We're grown, yet so many of us, when another dies, it is as though we cease to exist. How? You're a whole, independent person.

I know it's a lot more complicated than that. I truly do.

Maybe it's stagnation. Maybe we are so petrified of accepting this life-altering change that we can only stagnate?

It's pitiful.

It's not the grief that is pitiful, mind you. It's the inability to become oneself again that's pitiful.

Life goes on, whether we like it or not. I have contempt for those who are incapable of carrying on with their lives.

Perhaps, this stems from my own mother wound. Poison water - that's what happens when it stops moving.

That's what happened to my mother. She sits in poison and rot - still fully alive, because she is incapable of being her own person.

That poison and rot doesn't stay contained, either. It spills out, all over, and infects everything. It infected me.

For a lot time, I sat in my own stagnation, my own poison, my own rot. I was but a child, and I sat until near 25 years later.

I spent my time from birth to my late twenties oscillating between the 5 stages of grief. Well, 4 of them. Acceptance was where the door was, where I had to walk through to become. I didn't know this at the time. Only now, in my thirties, do I understand. Hindsight, and all of that.

I was but a child when it started. Three decades later, and I now understand. Thing is, I didn't know it was grief. Yes, people died, but that seemed normal. It seemed par for the course.

I was grieving the living - grieving my life. What did I, a child, do that was so bad? Why was I so bad? Everyone else seemed to be loved.

It wasn't me - the damage emotionally immature and emotionally unavailable parents cause is something I've had to ponder and heal from for years.

Perhaps, that is the root of my contempt for people who completely cease to exist after the death of a loved one. Perhaps, having had to hold my own grief, alone, even when I didn't know what it was, is the source of my irritation in others.

It's not to say people shouldn't grieve. We should. Grief is as much a part of life as love. Death is as much a part of life as living.

I'll ponder it for years to come, Friend.

Why does one death evoke more than one demise?

Grief is not the problem. It's the stagnation. Grieve as much as you need, for as long as you need to, but keep on moving. Keep on living until your heart stops.

Our demise over someone else's death isn't proof of love. It's proof of not having a self independent of the dead.

That, Dear Friend, is the saddest part of all.

Love,

Always,

Cian.

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