Life is precious/art/a gift.
Life is fleeting/slow/boring.
Life is so many things and all things.
Including short. Brief. Intimate. Overintheblinkofaneye.
Grief, on the other hand, moves in strange ways. It moves over and under and lurks in unexpected places. In the sun with the birds chirping, it doesn’t feel like grief. It feels like living. Then you move into the shadows and darkness, whilst the sun is still up in the sky and every thing becomes topsy turvy.
One year on. So, very, very missed.
Life. Death. Over. Under. Black. White. It somehow doesn’t seem right that the line between life and death is so concrete. I refuse to believe that it is, in fact. I think when I hear the rainbow lorikeets chattering next door, the laughter of your best friend, the click of the shutter, that in that moment you are there and everywhere.