⭐ you don't know what you've got till it's gone
Heartbreak has a strange way of affecting the way you see the world. It's like learning of the death of a close friend, or receiving a diagnosis of terminal illness. They all warp the film of life that plays out in front of your eyes, either blurring it, slowing it down, or tinting it with moody filters. Sometimes grief makes life sharper, more vivid. I notice every little thing, envying how carefree the squirrels in my backyard are as they go about their business. People-watching is cast in a new light, too; could that man shopping for eggs also be holding back tears, or am I the only one? Though on other occasions I achieve what must be the opposite of mindfulness: on a recent drive I was so caught up with what was going on in my head I almost ran a red light in my stupor. I felt strangely dissociated from the events that were unfolding in front of me, as if I were some third party spectating my body go through life from the view of a shoddy VR headset.
Earlier this week on my way home after a cruelly long day at work in which I had cried at the office, on the plane, and in the taxi back home (is crying on Ubers the modern-day confession?), I took a commercial break from my self-pity to notice just how nice it was that I wasn't going home to an empty house, but one with my mother and a home-cooked meal. And it made me think—yes, you don't know what you've got until it's gone, but maybe more importantly, you don't know what you still have until you lose something you love.