Kathleen Rooney & Elisa Gabbert
Losing the thing can be worse than never having had it at all.
People may resent you for having something they don’t, but don’t expect them to like you better if you happen to lose it.
There’s not much else to life; the gains exist only to allow for loss.
I don’t know why I wrote “Sorry for your loss” on the Valentine.
Polyamory is the ambitious but campy attempt to love without loss. Love has infinite value when scarce, limited value otherwise.
Sometimes it takes losing a thing to realize how little you care. You may feel like an empty paper bag, waiting for the next thing.
The next thing is little comfort in the wake of loss. The brain wants to run concentric circles around the thought of the next thing.
Sometimes you lose it like the memory of a dream—in half-steps, slippery.
So much history is missing if not lost outright.
I still think of that dog from my 20s as lost, versus gone.
I only listen to this song to remind me of my loss.
Take all the objects you fear losing, and burn them in a drunken fire in the desert. Rituals, a sense of the ceremonial, can ease the pain of loss.
A great loss can leave you feeling like a half-finished painting. Depressingly left in the easel.
Decay is a less dramatic kind of loss, but no less hurtful.
When love is lost, as opposed to a limb, what is the equivalent of phantom pain? Where, outside the body, is it experienced?