Mourning. A dull ache lingering in the background as we move through the noise of the day.

In quieter moments, as we seek sleep or begin to rouse from a short, fitful slumber, it rises closer to the surface, more pointed, more acute.

More present. A piercing longing for something lost. Or someone. In the silence, it pulses through our veins, thump-thumping in our ears, a throbbing reminder of the pain.

Perversely, over time it can become something like a trusted companion. A poor but no less intimate substitute for what we’ve lost.

Too exhausted, too weighted down, just too fucking bone-marrow sad to lift our heads toward the light and a future beyond the grief, we can only stare, comatose, down into the murky quicksand of the moment.

On endless repeat, we spend our days in a muddled haze, smiling only when convention requires, and we dream our nights away as best we can.

And then, one day…

— Jeff Collier