Loss is wine. It is a bitter and sour flavour that lingers on the tongue, with an underlying savoury sweetness.

Loss is a painting; it is a chaotic and disorganized mess of colours and shapes, beautiful in its own unique way.

Loss is a song; it is a sorrowful melody of comfort and sadness.

Loss is a photograph; it is a frozen moment in time capturing pain, sorrow, and present beauty.

Loss is a poem; a collection of words that seek expression of the ineffable.

Loss is a sculpture; an image of grief and sorrow that is both delicate and powerful.

Loss is an emotion; a feeling of emptiness and sorrow, of hope and strength.

Loss is an experience; a journey, heartbreaking and inspiring.

I have not yet told you what I lost though, have I? I am sorry for forgetting. I lost a friend, at least I think it was that. A friend? I could probably be more precise. It was a… what to call it hm. A hope maybe? No, a newfound untrodden path. A chance! Yes, I think it’s probably best to call it a lost chance. I lost a chance. And though I never knew what it was, I can still feel its beauty.

Loss is a reminder. A reminder that life is fleeting and that we must make the most of every moment. That we must hold on to things. But then if we hold on, we might lose our grip. Ah. I think that’s what happened here. I lost something I wanted to hold on to. And strangely, all and everything I am thinking about is the beauty of this loss.

So am I secretly happy that I lost this thing? No, I still grieve. With admiration of its beauty yes, but I am grieving. I cannot forget the beauty. This is what is here with me now. I can feel this loss. I can feel it deeply, but I have it.

So in a way, it is still here.

If the things I do not have are with me, maybe too the things I have are gone. Maybe they are not here, or mine, or anything at all. Maybe there is no point to my beating this over and over in the hope that it will become whole enough for me to lay it away as a thing that is not happening anymore. No point to my hoping that it could become a past tense verb-event. No point to my hoping that it could become a memory. Lost. Continuously lost. Losing. Going. Flying away. Even now, the point is lost to everyone and me.

I could say I didn’t care about it, but I do!

Loss is tragic beauty; an elemental thing.

Loss is made up of grief, admiration, and the hope of what could have been. It is a reminder that something was taken away, but also a reminder of the resilient wakeful nature of the human heart.

Loss is morning and mourning.

Loss is beauty and tragedy, interwoven and inseparable. In the end, loss is inescapable.

Loss is so hard to solidly find. It is lost to us, how we must walk up to it. So in the strangest of ways, loss is lost to us because we do not know how to hold on to it and we do not know how to let it go. It is an in-between; never-ending absence, ever-gone but still so near. It is the kind of thing that weaves the eternal tapestry of life. You can try to have it, or you can try to leave it. But it will always remain away from you. I’ve probably lost you too! But I cannot care one bit, I’m too busy admiring the wake of a storm I can only try to tell you about.