Four AM Wakeful

I sit in silence, and stew very quietly, sorting the world into things I can feel about and ideas that I can grapple with. I find myself outraged at poor grammar, incensed at small errors and mistakes in my reading, vituperous at friends who commit the sin of simply not being as exceptionally erudite as I am. I am fathomless in my resentment of videogames being successful just because I don’t like them very much and find myself wanting to wax wrothful upon the directives and media that lets these things exist.

When I breathe out…

I can’t feel anything. I don’t feel the loss. I don’t feel the absence. I don’t … feel anything. I wonder about the moment that transpires in a few days when the funeral arrangements happen. I wonder about the inheritance. I wonder about cleaning her house. I wonder about what this means for the other grandmother that survives her. I wonder when I am going to feel less like this.

Food’s not as good. I hunger but I just want to be full. I want to cry, but most strangely, I want to cry for Tank. I think, at the end, Nanna was okay with it. I am doubting myself more and becoming angry at the smaller things more readily, almost inversely proportionate to their meaning.

This is the end of day one.

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