10 years…I truly don’t know how to do this.
Why must one’s exquisite grief, so loathsome to me, still have such a powerful and intense beauty? This is not sublime, no. It can’t be. I do not want it, it gives me nothing in the moment that I want, I don’t feel inclined to wear a brave altruistic front or be dignified and put on the appropriate cultural mask, but I guess that’s nothing new to others.
New for me is to see it with and in my eyes, there is something–a terrible beauty–perhaps in the rawness and authenticity of my own agony so dreadful and spontaneous in this moment of feeling that I have not really ever seen from the outside. But I’m not a face gazer, except on pictures.
I don’t pose for the camera. Not my way. And I must not hide from facing dark and perplexing feelings, but how strange and complex and I have no idea what to do with them but watch them going through me and me through them. Is this my face? Was that his? How dark can the corners of a grieving soul become? I can’t say; I can only seek and face the dreadful darkness until I finish with what is there for me to learn and to process,, and whatever emerges with or from it. Still, I’d rather hide…
Pretty Real Behind the Veil 