As I sit here eating a strange mix of meat and rice out of catgut or condom or some other material I'd rather not be aware of, I feel it necessary to write. Mostly because I'm tired of pretending to be dead.
I was thinking about deah this afternoon, as I watched America's Sweethearts. This is why books are so much more preferrable than movies. In movies, my mind can wander. In books, I'm more often than not so consumed that nothing can break through the barrier.
So again, I was thinking about death, as I've done quite often since my grandfather passed away three weeks ago, today. I used to let death be an overwhelming fear; something I refused to think about, like unpaid bills. Lately, death is a comforting thought. The knowledge that one day this will all be over with is something to be grateful for and not afraid of. The belief that with each second that passes and each breath taken another moment before my death has passed, well... I can deal with that. I can accept it. And perhaps learning to accept death is a step towards letting go of all my fears. I'm fairly certain it's either that or a step towards complete insanity. And really, I'm no longer sure if I care if there is a difference. We're all dying from the moment we're born and each day that ends is one step closer to that. I used to try to ignore it, even though it was the prime reason for my crazed race against time. Like the white rabbit, I bore through life as if it could end at anytime -- and there was so much left to accomplish.
I believe that race has ended. If in the end of it all I can lie back and say I have lived life well, by my standards and no one elses, then I have done just fine. If I can remember the laughter of my children, the soft touch of the love of my life, the comfort of my parents embrace, the knowledge that I gained and the many little lives I was blessed to be a part of, then I have nothing to complain about.
Death is coming, and tomorrow or thousands of tomorrows from now, I am okay with that.