I've been dreaming of my friend Sally. I dream that I tell people about my dreams about her. I dream that I ask my ex if it makes sense for me to go to her house, let myself in and "wail into the carpet." I wake up before there are any answers.
As I've tried to do since my brother died, I think of ways to turn these dreams, this grief, this reality into something else. I churn with stories unwritten; I am worried that they are all the same story.
But, enough about what I've been up to. Read this essay, Grief Magic, by Emily Rapp.
"What do ruined people do? Weird shit."
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