The Same Words, the Same Grief

I wake thinking the same thoughts again. Write the same angry lines, the same heavy breath, the same ache. I know how this looks—from outside, maybe it seems I’m stuck in a loop, endlessly replaying a track no one else hears. But the track is inside me now, carved into bone.

Why must I endure this, when others seem untouched? Why must I hold the fracture of losing him, while the rest of the world smiles on? People carry on. People marry, grow old, lean on fathers and mothers who talk, hug, teach, correct, stay. I don’t curse their joy, though envy tears me at night. I only curse the unfairness: that my father died at 50, without warning, and I, barely 26, must carry his silence and his memory.

Yes, I know the world doesn’t pause. It doesn’t close shop because I grieve. Life’s commerce keeps going: bills, expectations, people who never understood the weight I carry. My extended family—those who never shared our morning grief, our midnight tears—they move in sunlight I cannot enter. Their laughter snaps in my ears. Their small joys feel like knives.

But I hide. I laugh. I make jokes. I show a version of me that fits what others expect. Because no one will give space for my darkness. Because I must be a “functioning one.” Because autism demands I “act small,” not let the turmoil inside me show. Because to ask space is to be labeled weak. To be different is to lose your say in happiness. They judge me gently in polite glances, never seeing the crater inside.

For the urn, I light a candle each night. I whisper his name. I pray. I ask: Is he free? Is he at peace? If there is a place beyond this place, let him listen. Let him be held. Meanwhile, I exist in the echo — the echo of what I lost, the silence he left behind. I envy those whose parents still speak, whose old age is cradled by memory and touch.

Philosophy calls this the absurd. Camus said life is a Sisyphus task: the rock we push forever, only to have it roll down again. Repetition with no promise. (Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus). My grief is that rock, and I push it every day. We want meaning. We demand why. The world offers none.

Nihilism whispers that life holds no inherent meaning (existential nihilism). If that’s so, then the world’s injustice loses no weight by argument. The only escape is our own short acts of revolt—small, defiant. But even those feel hollow when the wound is wide.

Peter Zapffe describes how humans, with consciousness overdeveloped, are unsuited to existence—they see more than nature meant. We build illusions to shield ourselves, distractions so we don’t drown in the void. (Zapffe, On the Tragic) So religion, mask, laughter, joke—they are surrogates to avoid drowning.

Still — I cling. Because though I know it may be selfish, I am tired. Tired of the same lines, same ache. Tired of being the one who hides. But I can’t stop. Because moving forward is either surrender or resistance. I choose to resist in the whispers, in the grief, in the raw confession of pain.

Maybe someday the ache softens. Maybe someday I will stop writing the same words and say new ones. But this morning before work, I sit with this old sorrow and let it shape me: broken, human, longing. And I pray that out of the endless loop, I might find a shard of light big enough to guide me home.