Part of me keeps falling back, keeps hoping without hope that some miracle will swoop in and save the site. That I'll wake up from this anxiety-riddled nightmare. I'm not waxing poetic - I mean that. Part of me genuinely cries out inside for something to take this pain away, but life has taught me there's nothing safe that will, so I must sit with it. I must permit it to pass over me, through me. Until only I remain.
The last time I felt this bad, my dad was going through a terrible, slow, terminal cancer diagnosis. That was over several months, and I only had bursts of it throughout that time.
This? This is in my home. In my heart. It is concentrated. Sustained. It is a constant companion, an anchor around my neck, and I'm struggling to have the strength to step away even for a day, because part of me fears that I'll look back, and it'll be gone.
It's not just the people. People are people, great and terrible. No amount of scrambling for connections and contacts will save what it is we have here. It will suffice, but it won't make up for it. It was what we made together, in this strange little space, that had all the value. It is the shape of the vessel that defined what we put into it, and that combination is everything.
I cannot be more thankful for your time, and your efforts. You all have been the best of us. Let us give this place the send-off it deserves, and let us carry all of its good with us in our hearts.
I will be here when it goes. I will be here with my eggbug. I hope you will be too.
