by Cláudio Alves

For a while, I thought that loss would lead to tears, a general sadness that consumes you whole and leaves behind a husk. Much art and media made it seem so to my adolescent self. The piteous melodrama that the mainstream loves to sell was a convincing lie, and so were the beatific visions of bereavement from which a person learns and grows stronger. But life doesn't obey narrative rules, nor does it seek to satisfy in the ways a Hollywood producer might. The tears do come - and they did - but there was more to it. More that wasn't aligned with ideas of beautiful suffering or an education of the soul. When I found grief, I found anger, too.

Why must it hurt so much? Why must it isolate so strongly? Why does it seem like no one understands? Why must joy prevail in the world? It's obscene, it feels wrong, and it stokes the fires of fury inside. Yet, there's no clear target for the flame. You find yourself full of emotion, wanting to wield it like a weapon and hurt something, anything, maybe yourself, or maybe nothing at all. There is no reason in grief and nowhere to go from there. Often, one finds no path out or through, no answers whatsoever. In this solipsism, recognition may lead the way. If not in the company of others, then in the mirror of the screen – in works like that of Nicole Kidman in Rabbit Hole…