At some point, grief stops being an emotion and becomes a function.
In this body, sorrow is no longer chosen. It is sustained. Fed through tubes, regulated by machines, kept alive without asking why.
The heart still beats, but not with intention. The body remains operational, while feeling has been reduced to a monitored state.
These wires do not heal. They maintain. They ensure that mourning continues without interruption, without rest.
This is not survival. It is calibration.
Grief here is not loud, not dramatic— it is systematic. Scheduled. Unavoidable.
The figure does not resist. It sits, allowing the process to run, as if sadness were now a permanent setting that cannot be turned off.
To be programmed to mourn is to forget what came before the pain. To exist only as its continuation.