JunkDror

Only amongst grief will I question my emotional intelligence.

It is a universal experience to meet, to love, and to lose – in that order. Relationships, occupations, lives – they all carry the unavoidable doom of an expiration date. If we are “lucky,” the universe grants us a timely notice, a countdown to the end. Though, in any case, there is no cure for the profound grief that often follows.

In unattended guilt, I admit I mourn the living more than those beyond the grave. As a victim to calamity in dwindling sparks and disheartening friendships, I feel the sickening sting of betrayal and heartache as if I have been iron-branded by Hades himself. And without a well-executed exorcism, these living ghosts who are too warm to ceremonially part with remain so close within reach they plague my mind and disrupt daily functions. 

Like a post-traumatic trigger, an abrupt reminder of our time together is followed by extreme anxiety and a debilitating sense of emptiness. Temptations rise. In denial, we intellectualize our desolation as a testament to human endurance, convincing ourselves the only chance of surviving such numbness is through relapsing – believing, that in a bustling crowd, far and foreign, the sincerity of their youthful laugh and natural magnetism could still divinely part the sea. So, despite our polarity, we beg and plead to see them in the light once more, to share a last meal of amelioration, hoping to manipulate an outcome in our favor – reunion, closure, pleasure.

But what a credulous perception to conjure; for two paths that are not meant to cross are set by destiny to diverge, and one has not suffered enough if you willfully return to that which makes you ill. Arriving to this conclusion, we can accept the loss of a breathing friend and welcome grief with all its convoluted responses – bed rotting, binge eating, vengeful plotting, tear drowning. Consequently, the next time you are thrown by the sight of their favorite color or sound of their favorite song, the absence is filled with the weight of your courage; until the day the last memento goes ignorantly and blissfully unnoticed. 

However, as ineffable and senseless it is to say, I find grief in relation to death to be a more tender and innocent undertaking. The only ending that you cannot barter, the return to dust, is the most straightforward and absolute form of closure that taints the heart with never ending reminiscence. Though undeniably more tragic than cutting brotherly ties, the lack of rationale poses no opportunity to deter fate in a matter fueled by emotional attachment. 

Is this laid back approach to death an attempt to bypass grief? Or is this unique reflex active mourning itself? Concerningly, I may be building an immunity to the loss of life and I continuously grapple with the negative connotations associated with it. It almost feels sociopathic to look at the ordeal in the face and turn the other cheek with such acceptance. Simultaneously, the universal truth of the promise of death is familiar and does not blindside me like an ex-partner or friend is capable of doing. While there is no empathetic sensibility without conscious life, it feels counterintuitive to relish in anguish over the imminent when there is equally no cosmic future without death. 

Now whether I am insensitive or simply not fearful of death is a topic left up for discussion. Nevertheless, it is an anomaly to touch lives with the people we do, for a brief moment or till death do you part. And as I ruminate on the morality of death, I still know to celebrate a beating heart as much as a resting spirit with a bow of silence and blooming flowers.