Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive.
Despite your best efforts, people are going to be hurt when it's time for them to be hurt.
We all die and disappear, but that's because the mechanism of the world itself is built on destruction and loss.
So that's how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that's stolen from us--that's snatched right out of our hands--even if we are left completely changed, with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence. We draw ever nearer to the end of our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness.
Only where there is disillusionment and depression and sorrow does happiness arise; without the despair of loss, there is no hope.