Published in  
November 25, 2015

Into the trembling

Perhaps grief is its own answer. Its own genius.

Maybe nothing needs to be added on. Not consolation. Not promise. Not glittery glimpses of a grief-less future. Maybe grief is a question, the asking of which we are too impoverished to know how to. Too fascinated by plot points and story and arrivals and endings and heady notions of forever, and all-too-human phantasms about what we want and do not want. Or need and do not need.

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Maybe grief is the already-interface between our flighty autonomy and the unspeakable. The preciousness of losing control over the contours of our bodies. How we come to wet shores and calloused hands and a ‘grander’ yearning.