Walt Kowalski: [to Thao] Have some respect, zipperhead. We're in mourning here.
Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
Dr. Leo Marvin: Why are you always wearing black? What is it with you and this death fixation? Siggy: Maybe I'm in mourning for my lost childhood.
Izzy: [to Rick] Whatever it is, whatever you need, I don't care. Forget it, O'Connell. Every time I hook up with you, I get shot. Last time I got shot in the ass. I'm in mourning for my ass!
If you wear black, then kindly, irritating strangers will touch your arm consolingly and inform you that the world keeps on turning. They're right. It does. However much you beg it to stop. It turns and lets grenadine spill over the horizon, sends hard bars of gold through my window and I wake up and feel happy for three seconds and then I remember. It turns and tips people out of their beds and into their cars, their offices, an avalanche of tiny men and women tumbling through life... All trying not to think about what's waiting at the bottom. Sometimes it turns and sends us reeling into each other's arms. We cling tight, excited and laughing, strangers thrown together on a moving funhouse floor. Intoxicated by the motion we forget all the risks. And then the world turns... And somebody falls off... And oh God it's such a long way down. Numb with shock, we can only stand and watch as they fall away from us, gradually getting smaller... Receding in our memories until they're no longer visible. We gather in cemeteries, tense and silent as if for listening for the impact; the splash of a pebble dropped into a dark well, trying to measure its depth. Trying to measure how far we have to fall. No impact comes; no splash. The moment passes. The world turns and we turn away, getting on with our lives... Wrapping ourselves in comforting banalities to keep us warm against the cold.
Farewell is said by the living, in life, every day. It is said with love and friendship, with the affirmation that the memories are lasting if the flesh is not.
Daisy Buchanan: So how are things in Chicago? Do they miss me? Nick Carraway: There's a persistant wail of mourning all along the north shore. Daisy Buchanan: Oh how gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom, tomorrow.
[last lines] Lancelot: [voiceover] And as for the knights who gave their lives, their deaths were cause for neither mourning nor sadness. For they will live forever, their names and deeds handed down from father to son, mother to daughter, in the legends of King Arthur and his knights.
And perhaps there is a limit to the grieving that the human heart can do. As when one adds salt to a tumbler of water, there comes a point where simply no more will be absorbed.
and he suddenly knew that if she killed herself, he would die. Maybe not immediately, maybe not with the same blinding rush of pain, but it would happen. You couldn't live for very long without a heart.
It was a fine cry - loud and long - but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.
It's time to live with what we have and mourn what we lost.
For My Dad ~
Some people, they can't just move on, you know, mourn and cry and be done with it. Or at least seem to be. But for me... I don't know. I didn't want to fix it, to forget. It wasn't something that was broken. It's just...something that happened. And like that hole, I'm just finding ways, every day, of working around it. Respecting and remembering and getting on at the same time.
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;
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