The Wall

I don’t buy the neat versions of grief. The ones where you become wise and luminous and grateful for the depth of your love and somehow the loss turns into a clean lesson about impermanence and human beauty. Sure. Maybe on a poster. In real life grief is repetitive. Gross. Petty. Exhausting. Boring in its logistics and catastrophic in its undercurrent. It’s not one grand realization. It’s being dragged through the same emotional neighborhoods over and over while trying to pretend you’re not lost. Maybe there is wisdom somewhere in there. Maybe there is depth. Maybe there is eventual growth. But if there is, it comes wrapped in a lot of swearing, resentment, fatigue, dishes, loneliness, and random sobbing over handwriting. I’m not saying beauty is impossible. I’m saying if it shows up here, it shows up wearing steel-toe boots.