on the fear of losing
the fear of losing is excruciating. you find it hard to identify this feeling. it seems all vague initially, but once you take a deep dive into it, it is all clear, right in front of you, you can feel it intensely, without directly acknowledging the cause. at times, it is insanely difficult to connect with your own self, whistling helps, the soul tries to sing, that somehow tricks you into feeling better.
but the trick wears thin. you catch yourself mid-whistle, and the silence that follows is louder than the tune ever was. the body knows before the mind admits. your chest tightens around something unnamed. you call it stress, you call it fatigue, you call it anything but what it actually is, grief rehearsing itself, arriving early, uninvited.
losing is not the event. losing is the shadow the event casts backward through time. you feel it before it happens. you feel it while things are still good, maybe especially then. the better it is, the more there is to lose, and so joy arrives laced with its own quiet terror. you hold tighter. the holding itself becomes the exhaustion.
there is a strange relief in finally saying it: i am afraid. not of the thing itself, but of the after. the empty chair. the notification that never comes. the muscle memory reaching for what is no longer there. the self that formed around another presence, suddenly shapeless, undefined.
you walk. you move. motion is another trick, a good one. legs remember how to carry you even when the rest forgets why it should bother. you let the rhythm think for you. one foot, then the other. the world passes. you pass through it. somewhere in the passing, the unbearable becomes merely heavy, and heavy you can carry. you have carried heavy before.
the soul does not try to sing. the soul sings. badly, off-key, in fragments. it sings because that is what souls do when language fails and silence is too expensive. let it be ugly. let it be barely a melody. the singing is not for beauty. the singing is for survival.
the fear of losing is excruciating. you find it hard to identify this feeling. it seems all vague initially, but once you take a deep dive into it, it is all clear, right in front of you, you can feel it intensely, without directly acknowledging the cause. at times, it is insanely difficult to connect with your own self, whistling helps, the soul tries to sing, that somehow tricks you into feeling better.
but the trick wears thin. you catch yourself mid-whistle, and the silence that follows is louder than the tune ever was. the body knows before the mind admits. your chest tightens around something unnamed. you call it stress, you call it fatigue, you call it anything but what it actually is, grief rehearsing itself, arriving early, uninvited.
losing is not the event. losing is the shadow the event casts backward through time. you feel it before it happens. you feel it while things are still good, maybe especially then. the better it is, the more there is to lose, and so joy arrives laced with its own quiet terror. you hold tighter. the holding itself becomes the exhaustion.
there is a strange relief in finally saying it: i am afraid. not of the thing itself, but of the after. the empty chair. the notification that never comes. the muscle memory reaching for what is no longer there. the self that formed around another presence, suddenly shapeless, undefined.
you walk. you move. motion is another trick, a good one. legs remember how to carry you even when the rest forgets why it should bother. you let the rhythm think for you. one foot, then the other. the world passes. you pass through it. somewhere in the passing, the unbearable becomes merely heavy, and heavy you can carry. you have carried heavy before.
the soul does not try to sing. the soul sings. badly, off-key, in fragments. it sings because that is what souls do when language fails and silence is too expensive. let it be ugly. let it be barely a melody. the singing is not for beauty. the singing is for survival.