mourning a living person (pt 1)
In the quiet depths of my soul, I mourn a love that lives but exists only in fragments now. I find myself wrestling with the paradox of mourning a person who is still alive, the ache an ever-present companion, a constant reminder of what once bloomed in the garden of my heart. Love is a complex tapestry, woven with threads of joy, passion, and vulnerability. It paints a beautiful picture, but when it starts to fray, the unraveled edges leave me adrift in an ocean of emotions. How do I grieve for a love that still breathes, a heart that still beats, yet feels worlds away from mine?
The laughter we once shared now echoes faintly in the corridors of memory. Our souls danced in perfect harmony, but now we stumble through the shattered chords of discord. Conversations that once flowed like poetry now feel like navigating a minefield of unspoken words.
The hardest part of mourning a living love is the ambiguity that shrouds the process. There are no condolences, no funerals to attend, no tangible markers to signify the end. Instead, it is an internal struggle, an invisible battlefield within the heart and mind.
In this labyrinth of loss, I am left with questions that have no answers. I yearn for closure, but it eludes me like a fleeting mirage. Yet, amidst the pain, I discover a resilience within myself — a quiet strength to navigate the stormy seas of emotions.
For to mourn a living love is to embrace the fragility of the human heart. It is to confront the reality that not all stories are meant to last forever, that some chapters must end for new ones to begin.
To mourn a living person is to honor the depth of what once bloomed between two souls. It is acknowledging the laughter that once painted the world with joy and the touch that felt like coming home. Although, time’s passage can be both a balm and a burden, as it deepens the ache while holding the promise of healing wounds.
And while the path to healing may seem long and arduous, I remind myself that the heart’s capacity to rebuild is infinite. I lean into self-compassion and give myself permission to feel it all — to embrace vulnerability and acknowledge that I am not defined by this pain.
This is not an act of weakness but an act of honoring the depth of what we once shared. It is acknowledging that the love we had was real, and though it may have changed, it still holds meaning.
As I chart my course through this emotional cyclone, I also realize that I must mourn for the person I was when love flourished abundantly. That person deserves recognition and tenderness too, for they gave their heart unreservedly. And though they may be scarred, they remain a testament to the courage it takes to love wholeheartedly.
Inspired by Nikita Gill’s How to Mourn Someone Still Living.
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