on an empty page

The more I write, the braver I feel. It is as though everything I’ve seen with my eyes and everything I’ve felt with my fingers is in front of me, on a page, and from there it can’t hurt me.

I’m reading this fiction novel about a collection of women living in the UK during WW2. It has been super interesting to listen to their narrative and realize how far away I feel from all of that, yet how close. As one was coping with the damage and destruction this war created, not only physically and monumentally but the damage that was done to peoples’ souls. She presents this image of a burnt down house, all the rubble and all the dust, picking through it to try and uncover what was lost. Until one realizes there is no way to uncover through the physical pieces that are broken and busted behind. And as much as one tries to dig through this mess, to ‘reach the other side’, it becomes very evident that to do so would be leaving behind every memory that is hidden and buried inside the shattered house. What if I don’t want to move on? What if I don’t want to forget?

I think grief is often presented as a phase of life, when in reality, I believe that to grieve everyday is a natural part of humanity. To allow heartbreak to occur on a daily basis only leads your heart to a place where it begins to understand itself better. Acknowledgment of pain leads to a greater understanding of life, of people, of complacency and it creates a space that allows people to be broken everyday, to be real and confused and sad. So much of this life is those things, those really shitty things, but oftentimes the cracks in a broken heart reveal light and warmth, an ability to choose life and love.