i’m always tempted to measure grief in the amount i have cried, but i know that’s not true. but it’s the most documentable sensation of grief i can think of. everything else feels too invisible. there’s that great mary ruefle essay* about menopause where she finds the slips of paper where she used to document each day if she cried, for years. and she wrote the amount of times she cried that day: c x 4. the cryalog, she says, would be funny, if it were not an archive of her deep depression and thoughts. (i’m laughing now, too, looking at my swollen eyes the next day after writing this and i look like a gremlin.)
true love
true love
true love
i’m always tempted to measure grief in the amount i have cried, but i know that’s not true. but it’s the most documentable sensation of grief i can think of. everything else feels too invisible. there’s that great mary ruefle essay* about menopause where she finds the slips of paper where she used to document each day if she cried, for years. and she wrote the amount of times she cried that day: c x 4. the cryalog, she says, would be funny, if it were not an archive of her deep depression and thoughts. (i’m laughing now, too, looking at my swollen eyes the next day after writing this and i look like a gremlin.)