Post loss blues in a land you once belonged and cherished. Now your eyes alone are bleeding. Springtime light–aired sky–bound sunsets and the noise you hear conceal whichever truth you try so desperately to confront. Vanity.
You know this lie they tell you, that in the end death is something beautiful and cherished and in one’s final moment everyone’s forgiven? And sorrow is just another treasured part of the ordeal. Because what does sorrow really imply? That the departed will be missed, yes? That their loss of life is a fact alone to mourn for. I applaud you for your idealism. Go ahead and look for beauty anywhere you can. But you’re an indoctrinated romantic and it is making you a biased naive fool. In the end some people die alone in their own filth and blood and vomit and there was nothing one could do. Good luck finding the meaning in that. And the living end up left behind and free to wallow in their own bad conscience because they were selfish enough to save themselves.
You know this airplane procedure we’ve all been through, the one where oxygen fall from the ceiling and before you help others you have to help yourself? There’s a metaphysical truth for you. But even then it might be too late. You held your breath long enough to keep your organs running but the other person didn’t and now they’re gone. Was it your fault? Perhaps. But perhaps it’s not your job to save the damned. Especially not someone whose fundamental job was to safeguard you.
No one’s dead. Not yet. But sometimes people die despite being technically still alive and breathing. Be grateful for the time you’ve had I’m told. I am. It is what it is. I just wished the ending could have been as beautiful as the beginning.