The grieve we all live

This is about living when words don’t hold. About grief showing up in normal moments — a beer, the sun leaving, the cold on skin. About people walking past as their own books, full of stories that may never be written. Nothing gets explained here. Life just keeps happening. And somehow, that’s enough.

It was a long time ago when I realized words are always insufficient. When I realized that what I have to say has no letter attached to it. Still I write.

Today I write on the 27th of December. Christmas was upon us, the first sun in days enters through my sunglasses into my eyes and I find myself on a terras with a cold beer.
I cannot not write.
It is how I live life. It’s how I see life. It’s how I make life.
Many people, as I speak to them, tell me that they see life through pictures. I can understand making the words into a film, but I am a woman of words. My entire life is based on words.
I wonder, while having the realization that words mean only the thing that you believe they mean, if my life is meant to be lived in the indescribable, in the face of a thousand meanings attached to one—not even a thousand, millions, billions, zillions, endlessly.

I’m a bit melancholic today. It’s after Christmas, drinking my beer, feeling the taste on my tongue, seeing the sun fade behind the church of the square that I now live on.
Italy suits her.
The words that are seen, lived, now in English, are the ones that make her.
I see the reality behind the words, behind the meaning that she put there consciously for years. But nothing of that is truly it; it was just used to explain the intense amount of emotions, of feeling, of being.
That’s what I say forever.
Lost in the alphabet of my upbringing.

I think about a lot of things: the lover that is not mine, the woman that is in my house, the grass that is green because of the winter rains, Django who shivers next to me on his wool blanket; well, his mom still refuses to get up because she always needs the light of the sun.
She started a new book, Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking, of grief, written to understand things on a different level. I find myself in the same boat, while many people can say that it’s a completely different experience. As we all know, the experience lived in a 3D world that is seen by the highest is always different. But beyond the human system, the words attached, are they really different?
We speak about grief, letting go; when the ordinary became truly ordinary and the magic was always found there.

I myself have no clue what life is meant to be or how to live.
I am just plainly, ordinarily here. What a joke.
The depth of grief opened up that I was always special, that I was always normal. Am I lucky? It depends on what words you hang upon the experience that you think you see. Funny word play.

The sun hides behind the church and I’m wondering if I need to start walking home, but the beer is not finished, the cigarette is just lit, the book is still waiting. People ask me, while looking at me living, how life can be ‘this,’ and I just answer: it’s for everyone the same. It depends on your brain, how you see it, how you speak with it, how you think with it. Again, no words are found in this melancholic way of my first beer after Christmas.

I see the lovers walking. I see the loners walking. I see them as walking books. Everybody is their own story. Maybe they didn’t write them down on paper, but they live in everyone’s head. So many books unwritten, so many experiences lost—like beer not being tasted with the tongue, or the sun not being felt on the skin. It’s funny to me, and at the same time I’m grieving ‘this.’
Why would you not see your life as the best book being written?
My masterpiece is never on paper. It’s always just me here, getting cold by the wind since the sun left my skin.