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This incredibly dark seven minutes brought to you by WordGoddess, the letter Q, and the number 12.
High: I guess there's no real "high", persay, except for just successfully getting through another day at work intact.
Low: I've been missing Grandma a lot lately. It'll probably get worse when I see Susan tomorrow - we haven't seen each other since the day after Gram's funeral.
The rest of the house cleaning in prep for Susan's visit.
I love me some Turdmonster!
I am
I am
I am
The luckiest.
"Luckiest" - Ben Folds
same as yesterday
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March 12, 2002
Seven Minutes at Lunch
A WordGoddess collab.
March's WordGoddess topic is to write about anything for seven minutes.
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No matter how much I don't want to write about something, I can't write about anything else if I've got a topic stuck in my head.
Death.
This is going to be cheerful.
Last night's philosophy class (the subject of which I won't go into, primarily because I don't think I could re-describe it if I tried) prompted all of these feelings that I've had forever about death. I'm afraid of it. I don't want to experience it. I don't want my loved ones to experience it. Which is a pretty normal feeling for me to have, I think.
Mostly, I'm afraid of the last moment. What if the last thing that goes through my mind is something completely unworthy? What if I go into the beyond thinking "Damn, now I'll never get to see "The Lord of the Rings.""?
What if it hurts? Something loud, violent, that spins that last moment into something that lasts an eternity... something that catches me by surprise and fills me with abject terror moments before The End.
Cheerful stuff.
But what if it's not speedy? What if it's something that I have time to prepare myself for - a chronic disease of which there is no cure. I have months and months (or weeks and weeks) to prepare for my own passing. I don't know how I would deal with the knowledge, and it makes me wonder what kind of person I'd turn out to be. One that goes out with grace, or one that bitches all along the way about the unfairness of it all?
I wonder. And I don't want to wonder. Life has such an element of risk in it, and I'd rather be oblivious.
Thinking about death fills me with this painful feeling of emptiness (if emptiness can have pain - there's a philosophical question for you) - a hollow hopelessness that I can't describe. I have faith, but I want my faith to be so strong that it takes away my fear of death. Is that possible? Does that make my faith weak?
Perhaps it's a good thing that I only have seven minutes to talk about this. There's all kinds of avenues I really don't want to go down.
And yet I have to, because I can't write about anything else until I get this out of my system. Perhaps seven minutes is enough. Perhaps it's too much. But my demon is now exorcised...
... and my time is up.