Life ought to be a struggle of desire toward adventures whose nobility will fertilize the soul. -Rebecca West The quality of light coming in through my window is dark and dank, cheap and easy. It reflects night to me. I can see my face in it. It is viscous. I see it. I remember the way he touched my cheek. The deep light in his eyes as he looked directly through my paper skin, into my soul, waiting to be excavated. Grief lasts for many long years. It ebbs and flows like the ocean. Climbs heights and scales depths like the mountains underneath the surface of the water. Grief is not only sad. It is every descriptive word, of every variety and implication. It lives here permanently. It is a way of life. But still, sparkling heights are available. Even within this slow song-dance of grief (which everyone defines and lives differently.) The whole world is available to an open soul. Diamond caves are tucked into the murky, crowded cities of seaweed un...