Hard and painful and shattering as it is, my brain keeps trying to make a narrative of my mother’s last days. Is this what writing is, in part at least? That part of your brain wanting to make sense of life, keep you sheltered, keep you safe, giving sense to what in the end is just a shamble of raw feelings tied in a Gordian knot?
(What sense is there in death, though. I wonder.)
Off to work. The Ways of Procrastination are Many.
I’m proud of the my fellow writers’ achievements. In as much as I am a prisoner in my own grief, I enjoy their forays into the writing world and its requirements (public readings, networking, and the like).