My life is not my own. Who does it belong to?
There is peace that comes with accepting that the grief does not end. I can stop fighting it and put my energy into something else.
What am I doing? How am I here? Is this life not a betrayal of him?
I've lost the desire to record my life. There is no way it can be preserved. It all ends. It all ends.
Too many memories. Too many haunted places.
Nothing matters. Everything matters. Because nothing lasts, it all matters.
Life is loss.
I want to dream again. What was my dream? To be a writer. I gave it up because I didn't think I was good enough.
Matisse, after surgery and nearly dying, could not paint. So he invented a new artistic form: cutouts. With scissors, he cut shapes out of paper and arranged them into pictures. Even when he could have returned to painting, he chose not to. He dedicated the remainder of his life to the cutouts. I think about this all the time, how Matisse created another language to express his creativity.
I can't bear the absence. I want to die during a dream of my father. Die with him inside me.
It's becoming harder to survive the grief.
Sometimes, it feels like I'm losing my mind. The grief is so intense.
What has no words is the most powerful thing of all. Its power lies in its silence and incomprehensibility.
My grief defies language at the same time that it can only exist in language. Some things can only be written, never spoken aloud.
Everything you know and depend on can vanish. There is no safety, only survival.
Why couldn't he grow old? Why couldn't I have him like most people have their fathers? Why this loss? Why the complete annihilation of my life, my soul, and my spirit? Why am I condemned to a life without him? It's crushing me. It's killing me. Eight years almost and I cry until I can't breathe, until my chest is in shreds. The years accumulate, the dead bodies pile up. I carry his life and death everywhere.
I need to keep putting things into words, even when I don't have those words, even when those words have abandoned me.
I look back and wonder what I should do with these memories of my childhood. I know what I lived. I know these things shaped me, continue to shape me as they collide with my present self. Who was that little girl? What do I do with my visions of her, with all the things I saw through her eyes? I want to go back to that time, but I can't. All of it is gone. A new life takes its place. I struggle relentlessly with growing up, aging, confronting mortality. I get glimpses of the past. I cling to what I can of it but I am losing more than I can hold. It bleeds out of me. I have no past, no future, only now, only this fragile moment.
I don't want death. I want the past.
I ache for the past. The aching is incurable. Death is the only thing that will kill it.
I am writing against death.
I close my eyes and the memory of his dead body appears. I can't erase it. It's carved into me.
Life is so fragile, death so near. Say what must be said. Hold nothing back. Hate death, hate loss, but do not hate yourself for failing to tell the people you love what they mean to you.
Bear witness to your life.
When you realize you are nothing, how does it not kill you?
Writing as a form of love, as a way of giving.
I want to nourish myself with words.
I look at his face and can't comprehend that he is gone, no longer mine, no longer human. Whitman once wrote, "Day by day and night by night we were together,-- All else has long been forgotten by me." I tell myself: never forget we were together. Remember the together, not the apart.
A loss that cuts out your tongue. You'll never speak it, only moan it.
We are always living the death of the past, the death of this moment.
One day you have a father. Then, the next day you don't. I can't comprehend it and yet I live it.