When a person has a foot amputated, I've heard that the mind continues to think that the appendage is there. It's so used to what was that it keeps mistaking it as being there. Eventually, I suspect, like any loss, the mind slowly accepts that what once was is now gone. Although, I'm not sure, the mind ever heals completely.
I understand loss, a little.
What I don't understand, though, is absence (for lack of a better term): how is it that we can mourn for things we never had? Loss hurts because there was once a gain. But absence (absence that we're aware of and feel so palpably by some mysterious force) has no prerequisite, unless the missing of something one never had is inculcated in us by society, or, perhaps, there is force--call it desire, call it knowledge, call it perspective--that resides in us from a time long before we came to earth. Maybe absence is a form of loss, after all; a loss of climbing the peaks we knew we needed to climb, swimming the oceans we needed to swim, and becoming strong like we saw--if only in a vision viewed before mortality--we could become.
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