Precisional - for Sterz and his deer

The end of things is a haunting mess (for me). Some, as I understand it, can process events and move forward in health through grief or mourning or other significant human sociality and not concern themselves with it again. Mine drag along like molasses, seemingly stringing forever until the last molecular bond is severed and the two ends float like silk in the full daylight of open space. And even when the distant hope of reconnection is for all practicality impossible, even then I hope, longing for its return like some distant comet signaling a regularity, a confirmation, a usefulness; that my effort has been preserved and maybe even good (if good can be measured). Brutality (for me) is dealt most harshly through the hands of those closest to the skin and who’ve learned the weaknesses in the armor, those who have been entrusted to its secrets and protections. And when that precisional has been exacted, what is said cannot be unsaid, what is done cannot be undone and what comes to pass as a result of the attack cannot be erased. We can, at best, shift our understanding to accommodate what was missed or hope for the assailant that the error of attack will be useful for him if only in the realization that the attack did not produce the desired effect. Then the best we can hope for is the courage to face its product and the exactness of its trauma with as little self deception as has been provided the reasonable extent of our animal. And then maybe from that can rise a picture or a stone or a garden. And that act (the picture, the stone, the garden), is worth a lifetime.