I can't breathe.
There I was only today thinking almost cynically - time really does heal. After all - am I not living proof? Going about my day to day, more like living death, but still - breathing.
And here I am now pierced by the thought of all the things I could tell him, all the love that only he could absorb. And the way I pulled back from him and didn't pour all that love out. And I want to scream, but I don't. The tears pour silently down my grimacing face as I write this.
I was listening today to a podcast - a philosophical argument about when death is relatively worse. The argument was that it is not so bad for an infant to die because it isn't yet connected to the person whose life will have value. For the infant itself it is not so different from dying in the womb, which cannot be considered bad because it is almost the same as the 60% of all conceptions that end in spontaneous abortions. And it is not so bad for an older person to die, because the years of quality life he would lose are not so many. Death is not so bad when there is no good life left. By those calculations the very worst death is that of a young adult. The very worst.
And yet I have been trying to comfort myself that all deaths are the same, and his was at least painless and unforeseen.
And that is just considering the person who dies. And what about those of us left? When is death worse? When we wasted the life. Oh, I want so badly to be unconscious, almost as badly as I want to scream. This is my scream. The scream that will never be heard. The life that will never be lived.