The ending of things. The mute tragedy of falling. Hefting loss on my shoulders like a champion; like I'm not surrounded by a million miniature deaths at every step. And should that make it easier somehow? Just because everything dies all the time, should your death be any less meaningful?
Childhood's end.
Sticks'n'stones in the grass.
How can one live beside a twin that dies, and isn't that what we're here, doing continuously? It gets to be much. Maybe the real tragedy isn't living with death, but living with this unfurling spool into destruction and disrepair. Knowing there's nothing you can do about the missing cogs and the broken limbs, the most terrifying thing of all.
Love, we say. Love is everything. We say because it gives us the impression sometimes, often, that we can outlast and outendure death. Love makes you think you can do anything, but then death comes and sniggers. No, you can't. When the things you love begin to die, all you can do is watch.
But perhaps that's more noble than you realize. Maybe it's not nothing, after all, giving someone this gift of bearing witness to their passing from existence. Maybe love shouldn't be measured by the deceptive strength it brings, but by the courage you're left with. It's a different kind of strength, not running away from death. Standing to say I will endure this helplessness, this terror that is, this disappearing, even though I don't know what I'll do with the love I have for you once you go. And that petrifies me.
The construction
"He died."
seems meaningless in a world where there's dying at every corner, and isn't it, surely our duty to rise above, to shake heads and assert the triumph of living? In this raging war between life and death, where victories and losses are counted on such a minute level - after all, who's got the time to count brown leaves? - is it saying anything at all really to affirm he died?
It needs mean something, because else, why am I here? The act of witnessing, in our mind, implies testifying. I don't know how many of us would agree to bear witness to death, if they knew there'd never be anyone to tell, after. We need that validation of someone else's "I'm so sorry" because it translates somewhere to
"You were so brave."
And you were. People are, continuously, all the time.
Is there hope to be found in the natural progression of things? Just because I cross a bed of dead leaves, should that have any impact on how I endure my life? Does the normality of death deny its tragedy?
Do you reckon dying October leaves take comfort in watching a funerary cortege go by?
I find walking is a tremendous stimulat for introspection. Yesterday's walk, with all its abundance of dying, tied into my own thoughts perfectly.
