Grief is weird, that much I can attest. Mine, I found out, feels like a small old painting hanging on the corner side of the room. It's there, and at times I overlook it. But when I see it, I can't help but to stare and keep staring. The lamp, the wall, the table, the sofa, everything is there, around the small painting. And somehow, they start to become parts of the small painting itself. The grief then becomes a room. The grief then becomes a space. It then blankets me. Our memory is there, in its texture and scent. The blanket carries me until it doesn't, and then I go about my day. Until, I find the small painting again.
YOU ARE READING
Book of Unwanted Feelings
RandomHow I paint all those emotions that has been bothering me ever since
