Life seemed even more of a guessing game than usual.
Grief seems at first to destroy not just all patterns, but also to destroy a belief that a pattern exists.
I have an instinct for survival, for self-preservation.
We live, we die, we are remembered, we are forgotten.
This is what those who havenโt crossed the tropic of grief often fail to understand: the fact that someone is dead may mean that they are not alive, but doesnโt mean that they do not exist.
But life never lets you go, does it? You can't put down life the way you put down a book.