In every case of losses there is left a sort of hanging thought. Of what it is, it's hard to say; perhaps of missed chances, of wrong turns, of closed doors, of cold shoulders. Of all these things my thought is intruded: one scene after another like a bad slideshow on loop, its brightness obscene against the pitch-black of its surrounding.

For what it's called - a hanging thought - I can find no way escaping. Turn my head and it's in my peripheral vision. Close my eyes and the colours' still printed in my vision. And contrary to the expectation, never will I get used to the condition.

It is bitter, and it is painful, and it is okay. Losses are meant to feel bitter - and the ensuing thoughts, those hanging thoughts, they are meant to be intrusively painful. But it's okay, you know? It never feels more okay. It is even liberating, to some extent. And despite all the thoughts of missed chances, of wrong turns, of closed doors, of cold shoulders, I get this weird feeling of knowing that this loss, it is right. And I am right.

There certainly won't be a nice dream, but I think I can sleep well tonight.