I am no stranger to loss, pain, or death. I have seen them at every distance, and in almost every way.
Blades, bullets, surgeries, biotoxins, brawls, riptides, hurricanes, cancer, house fires, armed break-ins, attempted muggings, explosions, broken bones, dog maulings, bears, wildcats, rattlesnakes, lynch mobs, and being burned at the stake… let’s just say there isn’t much left for me to survive.
To mourn inevitable death is folly- instead be aggrieved at that which all too often comes before. With age and illness often come the loss of so much of what makes so many people what they are. That is what should be mourned. To still be the same inside, but to have lost the mechanisms to live as one might wish? Or as might have been earned?
Few things indeed are any worse, to my mind. But with the failure of physical faculty comes both introspection and a painful clarity. I have no wish to grow old, frail, or forgotten. Nor, in truth, should such even be possible. Efforts to provably better the world oblige better than that. Yet the same world would take those near and dear as easily as those far and forgotten. Evenhanded, perhaps, but never fair. With that unfairness comes anger. But anger at what?
Regrets? Always. Nearly never from choices made, but from those unjustly denied. Why? Simple.
Self-expression? Comfort? Happiness?
They’re privileges.
They have requirements. Qualifications.
Most people don’t, won’t, or can’t meet them.
Those who do? We die with regrets because our due was unjustly, unfairly taken by whose who don’t.
No comments:
Post a Comment