Grief

 I've been sitting here staring at this blinking cursor for an hour. The darkness into which I have fallen... I wonder sometimes, when you are evaluating me in the future, what my assigned role will be. The saint? The sinner? The strong? The broken? 

I died on December 10, 2022. My execution has been strong yet slow. The demise of everything I loved the most took seconds to come. Yet when the wave, or the avalanche, or nuclear bomb hit... well, you know what it all looked like. I wish for a million other things than this. I would rather rip off my flesh or anything but this, yet here we are. Here we've been...

I don't know how to breathe anymore. I don't know how to think, ask, or advocate. I don't know how to do anything anymore and it's the most pathetic way to feel. I look in the mirror, and I hate everything about myself. I hate the person I am now. I hate the way that I feel. I hate everything that is and I miss with every ounce of my being what was before and will never again be. 

People talk about surviving, and I have no fight in it. What is there to survive? Death? I hold onto the moment when I go to the grave, and my soul and my body cease their connection. I look forward to the release of this devastation, and the freedom to see it all unfazed, unfoggy, and clear. What do I do here, my loves? Who am I now? Who are we?