'It's just a game.' The dishwasher heard it differently.
'It's just a game.' You said it calmly. You said it twice, actually, unprompted, while loading the dishwasher with the controlled force of a man defusing something. The Eye would like to enter the dishwasher into evidence. Your coping style is altitude: the moment a loss lands, you climb. Up past the pain, past the room, into the troposphere where everything is perspective — 'there are bigger things happening in the world,' 'in five years this won't matter.' All true. Every word. And all deployed, the Eye notes, at suspicious speed — wisdom arriving ninety seconds after a wound is not wisdom, it's evacuation. You run the same climb on real losses: the eulogy-ready calm at genuinely bad news. The 'everything happens for a reason' issued before the reason has even unpacked. Here's the Eye's full finding: the altitude is armor, and it's good armor — elegant, articulate, nearly invisible. But you put it on before checking whether this particular loss was safe to actually feel. Some of them were. Those ones are still down at sea level, waiting, patient as luggage. The dishwasher knows. The Eye knows. On some shelf below the philosophy, you know too.
Get your read — free on iPhonethe altitude is armor. the eye saw you put it on before checking if this one was safe to feel.