''...the author enters into his own death, writing begins''

Barthes

Letting grief find its way in me, a feeling of unknown proportions that I have always neglected. I see it now, as soft as a pillow, tearless, just a long moan over a deep cut. I am a girl, I'm eight or nine, my hair's short, my teeth are big, I am deprived of joy, I don't know how to play, I hate reading, my hand writing's bad, I'm terrible at maths. I have the distinct feeling I am nobody, a shadow of a little girl. I'll carry that girl with me for years to come but will try to hide her from others, put her in a drawer, disown her. I'll despise her with all my passion and throw her under buses of bad amorous choices and self-deprecation.
Then the non-attention of others will let me uncover the girl again. She's undernourished, a woman prematurely born. She begins to unveil the world and deliberately keeps her eyes wide open against the blazing truth. She's learning to grieve as a final resort, having realised that there's no one else but herself to seek solace in.
I'm starting to see what brought me here. Not a single event but a chain of wrongs. Grief feels welcome now, anger-free, a simple fluid of hurt and self-preservation. I don't think about how long it is going to take. I let myself cry over anything if that would help. I love unconditionally. I always ask the 8-year-old child what she'd say if... I steer clear from ill-addressed sarcasm and self-conceit, from the arrogance of narcissism. I'm coming to terms with my sins and fears. Every day grief vacates more room in me for the little girl.