I've spent a year fearing for someone else's life.


You'd think it would've made me value and treasure it more. Life that is.
One might think that I came out of that bipolar, post-traumatic, depressive year with something. A strong core perhaps, a force of will.
Maybe just relief.

But pain is not a lesson, what doesn't kill can still make you weaker.
And some wounds only fester and scar with the passage of time.

And so I mourne, because what else would I do?