two thoughts, two deaths too many
September 25, 2005I do not particularly feel like writing today. There are a few different topics on my mind that I would like to write about, but somehow I do not have the energy, the will power or the care. And yet today I do write despite of how drained and useless, to both myself and to the world, I feel. It is often I wonder how much longer it will take to wake from this 26 year slumber and realize what it is I must do to feel accomplished. To realize all the fleeting thoughts and desires, to see them as delusions or truths, as to take a step closer to the fountain that will ease my existence. It is not that I am in pain. I am not anguished by much of anything, anything that is beyond myself. I, alone, have the ability to produce any such ease, but still after so long, I've come only so far. It is still beyond any sight of mine. And truthfully there are days in which I'm just not sure if I am walking for anything. Maybe I should be walking in a different direction? Perhaps I should just stop. But really, the one thing that gets me the most is knowing that these metaphors are simply as hollow as the thoughts themselves.Two young men died this week. One, a healthy and vibrant 22 year old college student who, embracing the fruits of his adolescent life, falls to his death, ending it all abruptly. The other, a handicapped 20 year old kid who, having spent the entirety of his life injected with medicines so to keep the tumor on his brain stem from swelling, dies of heart failure, ending it all before it even began. Both sad and tragic. Yet for which one do I feel more remorse? It is sickening to even think that one death might be worthy of more remorse. But what is remorse worth? Is it a message that tells us that if we are not careful we too could die? Is it to prepare us for more sadness in life yet to come? Remorse and sadness are some of the only few things that actually allow me to pause and see hidden shadows that lurk in the world that normally go unnoticed. Its pain gives me the slightest glimmer of an indescribable hope, a light though the cracks a closed door. Why is that, and why cannot love bring me the same type of hope as I see with death? Perhaps it would, perhaps it has. But it has been a long time since I've had the fortunate chance to see it. And even when I had the chance in the few fleeting moments of truth, the love was deceived and therefore spoiled. It always is with love. Perhaps not constantly, but it does seem true that there is much more honesty in death then there is in the most lovingly healthy life. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's all just me.
posted by H. Hopkins @ 9:13 AM
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