None of us were prepared for the loss of life as we knew it — practically overnight — back in March. But some of us who’d experienced it before knew what to call the all-consuming fog of surreality that suddenly descended, that hollow void of absence, an unfeeling stasis that severs you from the world just right outside your window.
It was grief.
To those fortunate enough to have avoided profound grief prior to the pandemic, it brings me no joy to, as universal as it is alienating.
Grief is the type of thing you cannot know until you yourself suffer a loss so cataclysmic that it takes a part of you with it. Grief is an isolation so deep it separates your very being from the realm of reality, leaving you unreachable even when not technically alone. Grief knows no rules, defying the laws of physics itself, …
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