Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.
Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
You don’t feel like talking to me. No problem.
I don’t mind. Not really. Not anymore.
It’s your life; you’re free to choose who you talk to.Or not talk to. I, on the other hand, don’t seem to have a choice in this matter. And so, I can only grieve.
Because if I had to, I wouldn’t make this choice. Unless I had a damn good reason. Maybe even not then.
Little by little, though, I realize I do have a choice: not waiting around on you.
Works for me. I don’t have time to be miserable any way.