I don’t understand death. It yanks me in directions that seem too impossible to believe. Perhaps this is the result of living as one of the 99.98% luckiest people on the planet, with floors that are not mud, with no one shooting at me, with all the education I have wished for, with people who love me close by.
Death? It’s becoming an unwelcome fixture in my life now, in all its gritty glory. Denial rears its head, but I think that choice of reaction is actually a kind of pouting. Death hurts. My loved ones die when they should not. Somebody should pay for this.
What a farce I play. Welcome to the real world. Death is not the ultimate evil—that’s a fairy tale. Death comes without reason or meaning. It’s not a plot, something I can manipulate to reach satisfaction. But what is it? What do I do with it? Stuff it into a drawer of souvenirs? Beat myself over the head with it? Let it crush me beneath its heavy tread? Emphasize the good and pretend the grief is not really there?
All of the above?
Endure, grow, watch the trees in the rain, write, suffer, survive. I’m trying to learn something from this death–this wrongful, hurtful death.