Grief is a monster. It rips and roars. It has a thousand eyes and eight kinds of fur. It’s furious and it bursts into your home. Grief rapes and pillages, it spends you, but it never leaves you alone.
Grief is an embezzler, green-shaded and officious, sapping you from a back room where he carries on vital aspects of your business. You’re not sure exactly what he does but everyone seems to trust him. The first day he doesn’t show up you find you’re hollow.
Grief is a saboteur, a pickpocket, a bastard. A hurricane, an elevator shaft, a muddy puddle, a pie in the face. Grief stains you, breaks you, kicks you when you’re down. Grief surprises you and changes constantly.
But we often forget that early on, Grief is also a companion. Grief is true, constant, honest. It won’t run if you stare or yell. Grief is always up for a conversation or a really juicy fight. Heck, Grief even shares jokes, some of which must be kept just between you two.
Grief is your intimate, your confidante, your own.
It takes, but it gives back, too. It plays Good Cop, Bad Cop. You have no defense.
You think maybe Grief protects you from worse things. It’s hard to say.
Grief feeds you and slakes your thirst. It embraces you when no one else will. It will never leave you alone. It helps you feel special and keeps you apart when, sometimes, you need to be distant from the rest of the world.
Grief can be an object. It’s easy to blame Grief, and satisfying to beat the shit out of it.
It will step back a bit over time, and you two will grow apart. It never looks the same the same two days in a row. Like you, it learns.
But gradually your life will recruit new characters and more feelings. When you are busy with them, Grief begins to starve. You gain strength.
Grief is not the thing that hurt you, it's made out of you, so it will always be there for you when you need it.
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