There's nothing romantic about death. Grief is like the ocean: it's deep and dark and bigger than all of us. And pain is like a thief in the night. Quiet. Persistent. Unfair.
As writers, we put pen to paper in times of devastating tragedy, we just try to make sense of it. Maybe we'll find clarity in some of those words. Maybe we'll find peace.
I haven't dealt with death much, most loved ones passed away when I was a lot younger but lately I've been dealing with it more. I guess that's what happens when you have a big family, or a large network of friends. It's actually kind of sad… most times when I'm contacted by a family member back home, I immediately assume the worst. Today, I was right in my assumption.
Death doesn't make much sense to me. I'm not sure if it ever will. All I know is that we are born, we live how ever many years are given to us, and we die. What comes before and what comes after is uncertain. That uncertainty puts fear in my heart, so I never care to reflect on it much. I know that one day, though, I'll be forced to. When someone very close to me dies and I'm faced with the reality of it all.
For now, all I can do is grieve and work through the guilt that I feel & be thankful. Thankful that I've been given another day to breathe, to exist, to feel, to hope, to love, and to give. If you're reading this, I hope you're thankful for it all too.