( In this moment, in this grief, that sounds idyllic. A world without hurt or grief, without shame or sorrow. A world where injuries might not be healed, but they would not linger plague, where memories could not haunt. The relentless tide of hurts received and inflicted could be quelled, like ink that had once been a stain being diluted so much as to be no more.
Yes, that seemed idyllic. And yet— )
Are all things so? If hurt is forgot, is joy lost as well? Love and rage? Do they mean anything to you, still?
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( In this moment, in this grief, that sounds idyllic. A world without hurt or grief, without shame or sorrow. A world where injuries might not be healed, but they would not linger plague, where memories could not haunt. The relentless tide of hurts received and inflicted could be quelled, like ink that had once been a stain being diluted so much as to be no more.
Yes, that seemed idyllic. And yet— )
Are all things so? If hurt is forgot, is joy lost as well? Love and rage? Do they mean anything to you, still?