It used to be, when someone suffered a loss, it was literally a loss.
Perhaps a loved one passed of a terminal illness, or a tragic accident took its toll, a child
left without a parent, wounded soldiers letting limbs go.
The human mind seems to have been built for certain limitations of resilience, bearing
uncertainty and pain, a crucifix of time's relative insanity, expecting the best and
delivering test after test, often to those with life-learning disabilities.
What now, when unlimited loss is a beginning, when power is entirely internal, when we no
longer have the approbation of future certainty to guide us through?
Labyrinths of the cruelest temporary, almost bound book sitting in storage basements.
The human soul seems to have been made as an antidote to imitation's pestilence, growing
involuntarily with each sustained experience, a shining beam of serenity, reflecting the
Earth's inimitable glow, God's show of audacity.
Love's show of love.

Slow-burning with possibility and legiaecoly.