I’m supposed to move on, get over it, let go. But it’s like having an arm amputated and complaining that you can still feel the phantom hand balled into a fist, and it hurts, and they all stare at me like monks in their Zen gardens, and say, “You have to let go.” To them, it’s a storm you weather, and if I just keep pushing through, I’ll come out the other side to a brighter day.
