Grief, Grammar & A God Complex

Letting go isn’t about sanity.

It isn’t about maturity.

It isn’t about becoming functional enough to fake coherence.

Letting go isn’t for optimists.

Or cynics.

It’s not healing.

It’s what happens when defeat stares into your pupils

until time blurs —

mornings, nights, everything between

collapsing into a dull, spiraling hush.

It’s not defiance.

It’s when your dreams grow tired

of being tethered 

to an unruly wildling called life

that never knew your name

and never cared to learn.

You let go

when hope dies slowly around your spine —

like a leech clinging onto a wound,

not to bleed you,

but to remind you

you were never full.

You hold on

long past the breaking,

because ego whispers

that you still matter.

Because some small, stupid faith

still wants you to believe

chaos travels with coordinates.

You hold on because you forget —

bending is survival.

Fractures might heal,

but they never come back honest.

They creak through the gaps.

They remember everything that couldn't be undone.

Bending is survival.

Bending is adaptation.

Breaking?

That’s just death —

stretched out in polite chapters,

each one uglier than the last.

But you don’t bend.

You grip tighter,

because some bloated part of your vanity

still thinks you’re owed something.

Like pain makes you eligible for prizes.

Like suffering comes with coupons for closure.

You're not owed anything.

Not more than the pile of burnt, buried names

the world forgot before their flesh dissipated.

Holding on

is just your swollen self-importance

convincing you

that you can outwrite a story

older than language.

That you —

with all your grief and grammar —

can edit the seas and the skies and everything in between.

That's not resilience.

That's arrogance

dressed in the scent of eulogy.

And arrogance,

for all its noise,

has never fared well

against mortality.

Letting go isn’t surrender.

It’s swallowing the past,

the present,

and the future —

without flinching.

Letting go

is learning to chew the bitter

of the bittersweet

without asking if the sweet was ever real.

Because maybe it wasn’t.

And even if it was —

it came too late,

and dressed like someone else’s mercy.