Grief

What is it? Sadness, torment, trauma, self-interrogation, misgiving, disillusion, regret, or whatever comes out of a shattered heart?

Is grief simply a reflex mechanism of a wounded soul, which shields the victim from the harsh reality; or is it a source of suffering itself, which inflicts pain?

Whatever it is, inevitably, it feels real, until, perhaps, like everything else in life, it also gets washed over with time.

Until then, it surely touches and, perhaps, even scars, every life sooner or later, for, as a matter of irrefutable fact, however one looks at it, after a certain point, life is a sure process of biological degeneration, but simply a matter of degree in speed.

However deep one allows grief to get - or, for the undefended, it has to force its way down - of course, one has to move on, even with the dear part missing, for as long as life lasts. 

As plants live on with withered leaves and flowers pose on with fallen petals, sooner or later, one has to find joy after grief.