I woke up with a dream and I can’t help it - grief isn’t black and white.
Or neatly stacked. You can’t tell from someone’s Instagram if they’re going to kill themselves soon.
Grief colors my world a trillion paths and I wish someone would just hold me and ask me what I loved so much to make it hurt. No, I don’t want to stay there but damn, there’s nothing as terrifying as feeling utterly alone inside pain.
Gratitude for this moment, to be alive and write the bits that come up. This is part of my human experience.
In the dream he was still alive. I felt the weight of his bones. I kissed his neck. He didn’t move away. When I woke up I felt a heart-opening shame for having been so closed off before. I said hello to his mom and she was happy for me to be there. Oh the power of dreams. I said, “Of all the stories I made up about his death, I can’t believe this is the one that’s true!!” And then I woke up. To pair two extremes - reality and dreams. And so it seems, my tears still fall in streams.