I thought I was a writer. But writers make sense of things like grief and sadness and loss. Through words, a writer transcends the hurt and rises above it, and in so doing lifts up others so they too will be comforted.
Writers do not sit and type as tears run down their faces and their hearts beat slow and heavy. Writers are supposed to take that drum beat and create war marches to the rhythm of those dirges.
I can only sit here and think, “My heart is missing pieces, and parts of it are unmendable.”
I’m not a writer.