The distant terrains of grief stand bounded by colossal dark rocks, surrounded by sharp sea and confining sentiments. Seasons change, years pass, yet the barren landscape stays unspoiled by time. Unmoved. Untouched. Unaffected. It becomes a solitary yet solid ground for its unprepared visitor in an ever-changing and unpredictable ebb of life. When one calls on topographies of grief, it rarely lets them go back unchanged. Their sorrow, pain, and sweltering agony become the only "self" that remains.
A minuscule survived fragment, and one's only link between bygone and existent, becomes an immense, magnified entity to keep the façade of the "old" self afloat. To be of the world, it is mandatory to function; there is no place for sea and rocks, nor are there any maps that lead to unexplored and dangerous territories.
How does one measure, and how does one equate the degree of someone's grief? Do the narrow yet so forcefully joyful alleys of our every life permit a sorrow to walk its obituary stroll streets? If your loss doesn't measure up on the grand scale of life's horrific misfortunes: death, sickness, heartbreak, poverty?