witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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Last night, my grandfather passed away. He passed away while I obliviously passed my time getting high in the front seat of some boy's car.

I hadn't spoken to him in years. He was an author. He wrote poems about me by the pomegranate tree in my grandparents' backyard. The pomegranate tree on the other side of the world. Poems about my red hair. My red hair which I dyed black two weeks ago.

For so long, he barely lived as a memory in the corner of my mind. And now he's dead, but I can hardly cry. How do I mourn a person who's memory was more palpable than their physical being?

The most upsetting thing is I'm not entirely upset. I don't know what I am.

And that's the problem. What am I? Callous, heartless, cruel. When you get so accustomed to shutting your feelings off, all that darkness makes it difficult to find the switch to flip them back on.

But I'm not phased by death in the ways that I should be. People fear it because it reminds them of their own mortality. But we all die.

I remember in junior high, looking overtop the heads of all the students in my class and thinking "every single person in this room will someday be dead."

There's a poetic certainty in death; nothing in life is ensured but the absolute termination of it. We have an advantage in life by knowing that it'll end. What greater guarantee could humanity ask for? The odds of you dying are 100%, but you determine the odds of living well.

11:48 p.m. - Tuesday, May. 25, 2010

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