Sometimes, grief feels numb. Like when you wipe the roof of your mouth with your tongue. Other times, grief burns. And, it’s raw. It bites. Like the feeling you have when there is a blister in your nasal cavities. I might be wrong. May be there are no moments when grief feels numb. Perhaps it is all a performance – that numbness – just to aid us live and survive through daily toils. It might be that each time grief is fire, carried in a knapsack. That when we lose, and grieve, we are forced to carry fire. As is every other fire, sometimes it warms us. Other times, it burns us. Unlike most fires, it does not consume us. Or, perhaps, it consumes us little by little. Maybe it nibbles at us in quiet gradual ways. Our souls disintegrate, it might be, at the pace of natural soil formation. Or, more aptly, at the rate of continental drift. In 2014, in December, I had texted with a friend late in the night. She was hospitalised. It had been a brief illness. Almost as if it was
...writings and recollections; thoughts too.