Too late to sleep too early to leave. I've been telling myself sleep hasn't come because my hands are torn to ribbons from labor and while it is a delicious pain it isn't why sleep hasn't taken me. It's the voice I don't hear, the words to be read have ceased and even those were more far more than I deserved.
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Judith Butler once wrote, "Let's face it. We're undone by each other. And if we're not, we're missing something. This seems so clearly the case with grief, but it can be so only because it was already the case with desire. One does not always stay intact. One may want to, or manage to for a while, but despite one's best efforts, one is undone, in the face of the other, by the touch, by the scent, by the feel, by the prospect of the touch, by the memory of the feel." Grief allows us access to the self, access to the very thing that all persons have in common (so we hope), their own undoing at the hands of others, their own vulnerability.
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