Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Death. The End.
Then, not so long after, another friend was killed in a motorbike accident. Another funeral for a young man. They are never particularly joyous affairs, are they? This time I felt better armed against the attack of the deep-blue-funks. Yes, there were the probing incursions of negative mind-states, but previous experience had forewarned me, and so I did not fall as hard into the blues. Don't get me wrong, though, this friend's death still kicked me hard in the existential guts - I helped go through his apartment, sorting through his personal belongings, throwing out things that had significance for one man, and none for anyone else - that was a trip, a hard one. The affect on me this time, with this experience, was different. I had a different set of skills to cope, skills that admittedly were centred around the concept of dealing with my own mortality that, let's face it, is where a hell of a lot of our feelings of grief and sense of loss is derived.
Recently, this has happened to me again. Another friend, another very young man, another motorcycle accident. We had messaged one another on Facebook about five minutes before his death. Shocking, tragic, and freakish. Another funeral for a young man, one of those kind where many women wail, where the men attempt a kind of stoic hardness, and where we all laugh too easily at inane and tragically ordinary anecdotes from a life cut too short. Here was another lesson on life's seemingly indiscriminate cruelty and randomness.
We carry on.