And one heals. As my viola teacher wrote: the body is amazing and you will be just fine.
And one learns how to breathe. As my doctor said: this will take longer than 20 seconds, so I'm going to need you to breathe.
And one longs to write. As Elvis Costello sang:
And one longs to be heard. As Margaret Atwood so beautifully put it:
Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we're still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It's all the same impulse. What do we hope from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any kind we can get? At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.-The Blind Assassin