MORE THAN HIS OWN
22.06.02
Transcribed from some very emotion induced scribbling at midnight this morning.
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I feel hatred. Hatred towards her for leaving. For leaving us in such pain. The selfishness of leaving us to pick up the pieces
I feel hatred. Hatred towards myself for feeling the way I do. I feel hurt, I feel betrayed. I feel anger. But mostly I feel sorrow
I feel sorrow. Sorrow that nothing I could ever say could ever relieve any of the pain. Nothing but time releases that pain, and time doesn’t move fast enough.
She was here. She now is not. We are mourning her passing. Even those of us who were never directly touched by her life, we are still mourning.
Mourning the death we cannot comprehend. Mourning the loss of a life. A life worth celebrating. Each and every life is a wondrous thing. Perhaps the frailty of the life that makes it wondrous. Maybe it is the finite time we have to experience it. Years, Months, Days, Hours. Minutes.
It all ends one day. And one minute a life exists and perhaps the next it doesn’t. Are we meant to stand still, reflect for a moment then move on with what we think are our never ending hours?
A life that has touched ours. A life that hasn’t. A life that should be celebrated. A life that one and only thing that can be taken from us that causes us to dissipate.
Is that what happens? Does everything just disappear? Do all experiences in the past now mean nothing? How can you quantify those things that were experienced by someone who no longer exists? Is it the experiences that make the person? That makes a life? That constitutes a lifetime?
What is it? What is life? I feel I need to understand life before I could even contemplate what death is. Can I ever truly understand life? Do I even want to? Does an understanding of life actually come with it understandings of death?
I still mourn those who have passed, those who have ceased living. Be it physically or mentally. I mourn for what could have been, and for what was.
“A man’s dying is more the survivors affair than his own” – Thomas Mann (That Magic Mountain, 1924)
We are the survivors, and this IS our affair.
