Loss. It is tragic the loss of a loved one, let it be a person, object, home, animal, hobby, or ambition. Those who know the feeling I would assume know that is one of extreme unpleasantry. Those who haven't could almost never imagine it.

The loss of a loved one, that strange sensation of sinking. The feeling one may experience when walking on snow. Every step is ever so light, ever so careful. Then the plummet. Your leg falls through the cold, numbing snow, and for a second you feel a moment of morbid panic. That very moment of distress. That very moment of austere astonishment. That half moment of desperate readjustment, and that other half moment of the realization that there is nothing that one can do. Loss is that sickly moment, with its two horrid halves, elongated.

That feeling of desperate readjustment. The scrambling of thoughts in your head, with the precarious coalition of paranoia and despair. A feeling of complete submission towards the dreadful duo. The feeling of paranoia; that everyone is going to steal from you, and everyone worked oh so hard to do so this time. The feeling of despair; that you'll never see what once was a vigorous valuable ever, ever again, and no one can convince you otherwise, no matter how much you want people to try to feed the gluttonous need for help, whose right-hand man is guilt.

But no matter the dread, there is always hope. That feeling of hope that maybe someday you'll be reunited with whatever was lost. A feeling that, no matter how much you even know that it couldn't possibly come back, just feels good to think it will. It is the only reminder of once was, even if it doesn't come back. It is the letter that never came. Its words speaking of a far off light, a beautiful light. Whether its there or not, it's forward. Forward into life.