I hate how grief makes even happiness feel unstable. A good day doesn’t stay a good day cleanly. It gets contaminated. Either by guilt, by a trigger, by the awareness of why the good moment feels incomplete, or by the crash afterward when the effort of participating in life catches up to me. I still have real moments. I’m not made of stone. I can laugh. I can feel warmth. I can enjoy the kids. I can get absorbed in something and briefly forget the whole cosmic horror show. But the joy has edges now. It’s like drinking from a cracked glass.
The Wall
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