The last thing in the world I want to do at the moment is to write, and yet I know I must do it if I'm to avoid descending into illness.
All week, those who care about my well-being have been asking how I am. There's only so many ways to say you're fucking awful before boredom sets in. Grief is tedious, orbiting unendingly around the same small flame, so that nothing new is gained.
It's odd that I mention repetition and tedium in the same sentence. Normally, we say that practising something over and over is the road to perfection, and is seen as a virtue. Yet in this case it's nothing more than a tiresome mental tic which it is best to put a stop to.
I recall stating before that it's possible to listen to a significant piece of music so many times that it eventually loses all its emotional power, and I'm now beginning to think that grief is just an extension of this process.
Grief is about draining the attachment to the past, and its network of associations, until we can think of that which has departed without collapsing in tears. And, for your author, charting the progress as the attachment diminishes is important.
At 03:37, the last thing in the world I want to do is write, and yet I am left with no choice because each word promises a return to normality - somehow, eventually, inevitably.
I am not yet able to write properly, with conviction and the whole gamut of emotions condensed into a sentence - but it is better than nothing. Words make me feel sick, and yet despite the nausea I can still shape them, even though the tiredness and lack of confidence is there for all to see.
