Five years is a long time. It’s been a long road to get here. Some days, it feels like a crushing weight is resting on my soul. Other days, it’s just a light sadness hovering over me, casting its shadow upon me. And on some rare occasions, I am happy; sometimes, I am okay. In those five years, I learned how to be functional, how to carry on, and how to live beyond any circumstance, be it tragedy or triumph.
It’s not all bad. There are good days. There are a lot of good things in my life. However, regardless of how far I travel from the loss, I will always carry it with me.
On the flip, five years is not a very long time. By the time I eventually pass away, I will have, theoretically, lived to look back on that day through the lens of thirty or forty years of distance. Telescoping out even further, what is five years compared to one hundred? Or one thousand? Or ten thousand? My life, let alone these mere five years, are but a speck of sand when viewed in the scope of all of history.
It leaves me hollow, and somewhat existential. I don’t necessarily feel sad, or angry, or depressed. I am simply tired. All of these thoughts cascade through my mind, along with hundreds more, each with their own subset of rabbit trails and rambling trails.
It feels as if I have lived five years in a single day, and, in a way, I suppose I have.