Broken wrist

As a self proclaimed writer, explaining how something feels is one thing I’ve always been quite good at.

Knowing word choices and placements better than god himself while writing the bible is my one bragging right in an endless supply of failures and embarrassments.

I am a writer.

If not that, I am nothing.

And yet, I don’t know how to write about grief.

I feel it more than I’ve ever felt anything.

More deeply than love,

More importantly than joy,

More tangible than sadness.

And in return, my brain gives me nothing.

Silence.

I can do nothing about grief.

I can do nothing about the people I grieve.

All I can do, as I’ve always done, is write some impactful, beautiful piece of work in dedication of the feeling.

In dedication of them.

But what am I meant to do if I cannot even do that?

Then I can truly do nothing.

My mind, usually being the most impractical of places, can only rationalize grief in a practical way.

While I am usually a well of metaphors, the only thing I can scrape out of myself to compare grief to is the normality of life. 

It’s like the ache in my wrist from when I broke it when I was 15. I think the pain is gone then I do something weird and it strikes me again.

Or how I have to stare at the road on long car rides to avoid getting car sick. Even though I know it’ll happen regardless of how many of my surroundings I avoid. 

But then again, not everything feels like something else.

And so I cannot properly put a word to grief.

I can only experience it.

I cannot tell grief what it is.

It simply is. 

I cannot do anything about grief.

But it can do countless things to me.

All of which I will never be able to write of.