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Grief is emotion on steroids. You are fine one moment, sipping tea in your room, and the very next you break down crying as someone’s laughter echoes in the room next door. It comes to you as you sit with a group of people reading a book you really love, and the disquiet that stems from not turning the page at the right moment gives you an ache you can’t comprehend. It gets to you as you stand on the train waiting for your stop, and pours at you when you are smiling towards the moon in hopes of a good night. Grief comes to you as if you are its home, because you’ll welcome it no matter what. Grief houses itself in the tiny corridors near the valves of your heart, waiting for you to recognize it, waiting for you to feel it, waiting for you to see it with your own eyes as you stand tall in front of a mirror and your eyes look into the void of lifelessness situated in that image. It’s not dark; it’s full of light, full of sentiments you don’t want to know, and grief stares back at you. It seeks you shamelessly because it knows that a house never abandons you. In bus rides, in sidewalks, in subways, a succinct antidote for everything sits. Flow, a continuous chain, a skull looking at you through your finger, the skin of your own being feeling like peeling off of something else, this flow of time, flow of people, flow of surroundings, flow of melancholy, it gets to you there, knowing the win is its own. It never passes; it just flows, constantly. Like your eyes melting onto the skin, skin melting onto the ground, and millions of people step on your awful existence as if you were born for this. And what is it for, anyway? I guess it doesn’t like me sipping tea. 

You know, people tell you grief is deep sorrow caused by the loss of someone. I tell you grief is the intrinsic nature of human existence, the nothingness and apathy of being a nobody, the loss of soul in the myriads of hopes, grief is the closure one seeks from being present and alive. Grief is loss itself. It’s the loss wanting you to know what it felt like being ridden, being forgotten, being rotten. I always admired disquiet, solitude, nothingness, absence; I always anticipated grief to come get me when I am with my whiskey, drowning in self-harm and self-hatred, embracing the death bed as my fingers touch someone raw and full of life. I anticipated it to come to me as I embrace someone with apathy, with cruelty towards myself, being disgusted at the liberty granted to me to choose what I become. Staring at the someone who chose to converse, and all I am to him is a parasite. All he is to me is an absence. I anticipated it to come to me when I am answering to the philosophical question of suicide as easily as a coin toss, because it finally got too much. But it’s already here, showing me this future where I no longer exist, and I can see that’s the happiest I have ever been. But who do I embrace now?


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