Article: 261586 of talk.bizarre From: Kelly J. Coooper <firstname.lastname@example.org> Newsgroups: talk.bizarre Subject: Grieving Followup-To: talk.bizarre Date: 02 Dec 1995 09:22:06 GMT Organization: Rancho Apocalypse Lines: 41 Message-ID: <KJC.95Dec2042206@asylum.apocalypse.org> Status: O X-Status: I feel obligated to preface this with the fact that it is not me. I've been spending quite a bit of time lately watching the death of love. It doesn't pass quietly or simply or easily. Not that I really expected it to, but I have never been (so far as I know) IN love and thus, in unfamiliar territory, I find myself ignorant. I observe. Mesmerizing, almost, but more raw. You cannot soothe this away, or treat it or fix it, though I offer comfort and when he can accept it, it seems to help. Sometimes it is quick, ripping and tearing and shredding. And sometimes it is not and peels the layers of sanity and dignity away slowly. I'm sure it is much more painful to actually go through, but to watch it is unexpectedly wrenching, primarily because I care about him-what-it's-happening-to but also because the open-wound quality of it makes everything jagged. He grieves. So I suppose it would be more accurate to say that I am watching him grieving, rather than watching an intangible emotion itself die, but that's not all that I see. He is changing. Sometimes he just stops what he's doing and his face gets slightly twisted, looking half like a sneer of laughter and half like the wince of a stomach ache, and his eyes go strange. And sometimes, when that happens and I'm around, he locks gazes with me and makes a tiny noise in his throat like a half-grown puppy with a broken leg. I can almost feel the splintered ends of bones grating against each other. I cannot adequately express in words what it is doing to wrench the reality around him. I am hiding behind my words enough as it is rather than really try to articulate what I see and feel. And so I look on, watching the death of love, and I cringe. -- Kelly J. Cooper email@example.com http://www.apocalypse.org/pub/u/kjc/home.html "How long before wings?" -mary szmagaj, "nocturne"