Grief is a taunting beast. A layer of hell that can both be imagined and yet never imagined.

When someone close to you dies, you grieve. It’s human nature. For weeks, months, you grieve. And then, you slowly move on.

But, sometimes grief is not done with you. Sometimes grief comes back after months and sucker punches you in the stomach. Stealing the air from your lungs. Sometimes grief shakes your world so hard that you fall down on the kitchen floor. And as you lay there, an inhuman gutteral scream tears through your throat and shocks the world. A sound so loud, but yet you cannot hear it.

Grief can paralyze you on that kitchen floor while you wonder why you didn’t clean the floor yesterday. Your mind wanders onto the task of cleaning the kitchen floor while the world around you is shattering from the sound that escapes from your soul and out through your mouth. The scream hear around the world.

Sometimes grief can hit so hard that your body just stops. Your mind forgets. And the world hears the noise escaping from your soul that no one should ever hear.

And then it stops. The gutteral screaming. The frozen body. The blank mind. It all stops and the emotions hit you harder than a high speed rail. Nothing can possibly hurt that much. But it does.

Grief is a taunting beast.