My mind keep thinking about this quote by Clive Barker from ome of the Abarat books
We each die countless little deaths on our way to the last. We die out of shame as humiliation. We perish from despair. And, of course, we die for love.
I have been trying to describe the mess in my head by likening it to a room with bedbugs in the antique furniture, which is covered by stacks of important papers.
From somewhere there is a stench, maybe a cat pissed on some carpet or something, but it’s impossible to deduce the source exactly among the clutter
And every type I enter this room I am unable even to remember what errand brought me there, so I go instead to fill my coffee cup,
Then outside into the summer sun where dandelions are growing in the newly mowed lawns.
The past year of my life has been a mental tornado
And I am sure now I have died another one of these little deaths from the quote above
And I am certain that I will come out of this experience a different person
And I fear I might not like him as much