The Mizery of being Happy

Like the Oregon air to the familiar air of my sonorizona skies, the air here tastes different. Sharper, somehow, like the world's edges have been honed to a painful point, of regret, of disgus, of humiliation, and void of morivation. It's been this way ever since that morning, the one where my body refused to sleep, sunlight refused to penetrate the fog clinging to the edges of reality. You know the one. That one where the ground beneath my feet turned to quicksand, swallowing me whole into a grief so profound it feels like a physical cavity in my chest. You understand, the loss of love, light, laughter, and the lingering luster of literal longer to live.

See, I used to believe loss was a thief, snatching away pieces of you until you were a hollow shell. I've experienced a lot of loss in my lifetime. But now, I see it more as a sculptor, chiseling away at the familiar, revealing raw, jagged contours you never knew existed, yet somehow are brought into manefestation. It's a relentless process, leaving you gasping for air, questioning the very fabric of the universe every single time.

The ache, oh, the ache. How it wraps around your ribs like a barbed-wire embrace, squeezing the life out of every laugh, every smile, bleeding you out more than you contain. It sits heavy in your throat, choking back words that won't come, leaving you stranded in a silent scream, screaming to get out. And the worst part? The loneliness. This cavernous absence where their laughter used to echo, their hand used to fit perfectly in yours. It's a void that swallows even the sun's warmth, leaving you shivering in the perpetual twilight of their absence.

But here's the thing, my fellow heart-broken willowers, in this desolate land: even in the deepest trench of grief, there are embers, there really are. They are like tiny flickers of light, refusing to be extinguished. Maybe it's a memory that dances behind your closed eyelids, warm and alive. Or the scent of them lingering on a pillow, or even the memory of their scent that's taken home in your olfactory system. Perhaps it's the sound of their favorite song, left in a digital file left for you to hold, or perhaps it's just carried by the wind through the trees. These embers, fragile though they may be, are testament to the love that remains, the echo of a bond that defianty lingers even in the abyss of loss.

So, tend to those embers, dear wanderer. As your vagabond soul aimlessly wanders, gather them close, let them kindle a fire in your heart. Share their warmth with others who walk this same path, for in shared stories, shared tears, lies a solace no darkness can extinguish. There lies the love that gives you life. Remember, grief may have sculpted you anew, but it hasn't erased you-even if that all you want. You are still a canvas, capable of vibrant hues, of laughter etched in brushstrokes of sunlight. You are alive though you experience death. You still have a soul though it isn't the same.

This journey is long, and the path ahead is shrouded in mist and moss. But know that you are not alone. The one you feel you have lost is still with you. Walk hand-in-hand with the memories, let them guide you through the valleys of despair. And when the stars seem dim, remember the embers within, for they hold the promise of a dawn, where grief, though present, can coexist with the quiet joy of having loved and been loved.

This, my friends, is not the end. It's a different beginning, one written in tears and quieted memories, but a beginning nonetheless. So, breathe, dear soul. Worry about nothing more and no one else. Let the tears fall, wash away the dust of sorrow. And when you're ready, rise. Rise with the embers in your heart, and begin to paint your own story of resilience, of love that outlasts even the sting of loss, of love that if unseen by others will be made known through you.