“I think death is ugly. Dying sucks and I’m not looking foreword to it.”
Alright. It’s Friday. I’m tired. I don’t really want to write this. I don’t really want to talk about death right now. For those of you who don’t know, Heath Ledger would have turned 35 today. But he died when he was 28, so… (Frustrated sigh) I don’t know why it’s hard for people to talk about dying. (That’s a bold faced lie.) Life has so much to give! (Cheesy filler words.) Death is just moving on. It’s ok. (True.)
I know this is a sensitive subject, even for me, and I’m doing my best to not offend anybody. If you feel like this is just going to ruin your day, don’t read it. I’m honestly writing this post for myself, because I can’t think about other things or people right now, sorry. Death is bad. The pure absence of life in a body is really scary. To think that that will one day be me is not something I enjoy thinking about, yet it often creeps into my daydreams and fifth period fantasies. Whenever I think about death and dying, like really think about it, I get this empty feeling in my stomach. It’s like I’m at a fair, just in town for the weekend. The Carnies set up the portable rides early this morning and now they’re up and running. Their lights are bursting, the music is blaring, the wind is whirling trash and other junk around my feet. I’m on one of those rides that takes you up really high, so you can see all the rides and all the houses, all the little people. It pauses for just a moment- and time stands still. Suddenly, I can see. The music is a distant memory, the wind has lulled, and I can see. Perspective is everything. From up here I can see all the hidden places around the fair grounds where couples are making out, some thugs are smoking, a girl is crying as a boy walks away past two women holding hands who whisper as they pass the girl. But they keep going. They all just keep going. Looking at the dim lights in the houses, I imagine what’ going on inside. A baby cries, awakened by the life of the fair just across the street. A wife scolds her son for coming home late while another tries to persuade her son to go to the fair, just for a bit. Just to get out. On the other side of the street, two men argue on a clean front lawn. The lights on their house are out. Perspective is everything. From up here, in The Verge, I can see everything in perspective.
Then the moment’s over and the ride whips me around and I’m back on the ground, part of the fray. I guess death is just scary. And I’m afraid. I’m afraid I won’t live a life good enough. Good enough for who? For some arbitrary god? For my friends? Will my pitiful existence not meet the standard of some high class big name? Will my work and my love be enough to satisfy the society I’ve so despised? How much of my success (or lack there of) be accredited to my education? How many of my actions can be accounted for because of the public school system and all of it’s glorious tests? How much of what I say and do really matters? The truth is, I don’t know. There are people who I spend five or more hours a day with that ,mean the world to me, and there are people I’ve never met who mean just as much. So do my actions mean anything? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe my words will save someone’s life. Maybe I’ll drift into the oblivion without a backwards glance in my general direction. But you’re reading this. So I mean, I guess that’s something. Or not. I don’t know. I’m just going to act on my behalf and make decisions based on where I want to go and what I want my life to be. Sorry if that offends you. I’m just trying to make the worlds a more glittery place. I’m just trying to live. Sorry if that offends you.
Never forget the glitter- iamtheseventies.