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Y todas las noches bajo la vía láctea parecen eternas
Mike Birbiglia, “Breaking Up On A Remote Island”
Love is, you might say, the ultimate form of storytelling. In love, we tell the story of how we see the beloved, and of how the beloved sees us.
But nothing is the way we see it. All we ever observe is the versions of truth we create.
Isn’t that what storytelling is? Isn’t that what art is? The process by which we create the story of our truth? That’s the real meaning of “making love.”
— Matthew Sturges, House of Mystery: Conception
What is loss? Loss is a poison, like mercury of ergot, the kind that makes you crazy while it kills you. It makes your vision double, makes you live inside wishes and memories. Clamoring vainly to replace what is with what was. It makes you sensitive to light of what is. Reality burns your skin. You flinch from that light. You flee it.
Loss transforms love into grief in a painful, wild alchemy. And grief is an animal that grabs onto you and refuses to let go. It wraps itself around you, smothers you, suffocates you. You try to push it away. But it just comes back with a vengeance. Screaming at you over and over about what you’ve lost. And the worst part is, there’s no way to kill it. No way even to keep it at bay.
Grief’s only weakness is time.
I would have said, ‘Grief’s only weakness is love,’ but I don’t think I could say it with a straight face. We all know that love can do as much harm as good. After all, love is what makes us grieve in the first place.
(Source: kari-shma)