And It Passed Away

By Shunya

And It passed away,

the next arrived.

Yet, I survived.

A vessel made of clay,

Life again revived.

Yet, I survived.

It comes and goes,

Eternal river flows.

The timescale is infinite,

A heart filled with dismay.

And It passed away.

🌘 And It Passed Away — On Isolation, Loss, and Learning to Love What Remains

There are losses that don’t wear black. No rituals. No farewells. Just distance. Silence. Names no longer spoken. Rooms you still sit in — but aren’t truly in.

This poem came from there. From the gray space between being seen and being invisible. From the ache of friendships that slowly dissolved, of circles that closed without me in them.

We speak often of heartbreak. Rarely of alienation.

The slow drift. The quiet exile. The moment you realize you’ve been left out of something you once thought you belonged to — or perhaps never truly did.

There’s no ceremony for that kind of loss. No one comes to comfort you. It arrives without noise, and leaves behind a kind of silence that echoes for a long time.

This poem came from that place.

And It Passed Away

The next arrived. Yet, I survived. A vessel made of clay, Life again revived. Yet, I survived. It comes and goes, Eternal river flows. The timescale is infinite, A heart filled with dismay. And it passed away. — Shunya

This isn’t written from grief alone. It’s written from something more difficult: acceptance.

Amor Fati.

“Not merely to bear what is necessary, still less to conceal it… but to love it.” — Nietzsche

To love even this. To make peace with being left out, misjudged, misunderstood. Not out of bitterness — but out of clarity.

I didn’t choose the isolation. But I refuse to be diminished by it.

Silence is not punishment. It is space. Space to observe, to reassemble, to endure.

The vessel cracks. That is the nature of all vessels. And still, it holds. What it holds may change. The holding itself — that’s what matters.

I survived. And each time I thought I wouldn’t, some part of me continued.

This is not about romanticizing pain. Stoicism does not ask for drama. It asks for discipline. For presence.

To stay. To remain upright when the world turns. To see clearly what has passed — and not cling. To release what was never truly yours to keep.

This poem is not a farewell. It is a record. Of what has been lost. And of what still stands.

With steadiness, Shunya