Pale. Flat. Tasteless.
They’d crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn’t. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs. And they knew something the rest didn’t. They knew how lucky the rest of the world was.
― Louise Penny
It was absolutely this way for more than the first three years.
No matter how hard I WILLED it, I could not make my world any different than it was.
But thankfully, slowly, the color has returned-dimmer still-but no longer only shades of gray.
Music again touches my heart and the right words do bring comfort.
Sighing remains my second language.
And I still think how very blessed are those who have been spared this awful knowledge.