Lying in the Dark
To weep is to make less the depth of grief. – William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part II, Act II
To come to terms with a young death is a strange thing. There is the sense that it never really happened. That they’ve have gone away on holiday. She has gone away on holiday. I still try to txt her. I think of her when my brain slows down, and I am scared but positively alive. It is an absurd joke, ripped out of a thrown away Christmas Cracker. Something that was never meant to be opened. More it is a motley of memories, of smells, of fleshy blood and bone recall. What is love. Well it is certainly something told of the body. Through the senses and bristling hair line truth of touch, trust and return. The older we get, the more we can feel that we have lived; but mortality has no preference, reason or even prejudice. A volatile game of change, a lesson in temporality. We are not here long. So live we better had. EAT LIFE she wrote in her dying days, in her last words she rejoiced and reclaimed, take what you can and leave the rest behind. For others, for memories, for the binding. How funny it is, that identity is made up of so many small and anachronistic fragments. Our stories are not plucked from a single soliloquy existing in linear time.