nolongerinbetween

Posts Tagged ‘death

We have a strange relationship with loss. We rarely experience it on its own. For too often loss comes accompanied by other strong emotions that somehow manage to take the stage completely and overshadow the sense of loss. Anger. Guilt. Outrage. Shock. Bewilderment. Regrets. Denial. Frustration. Vengeance. Helplessness. Resentment. Disbelief. My life has been marked by loss in so many ways, but I am yet to experience it pure, raw, unadulterated by any other affect. Ten years ago, when I lost my boyfriend, I was surprised to realize that, despite the emotional turmoil I went through, it wasn’t loss what I felt but outrage and a deep sense of injustice. The resentment over the way our relationship had ended shattered any sense of loss. When Tori died, for a period of time it was anger and rage over her cruel fate that took over while loss took a back seat. When my dad died guilt and disbelief were my main emotions. When I lost some friends recently the sense of loss, again, was lessened by disappointment and disillusionment. In all my experiences these secondary emotions took the reins, muddied the waters and made a mess of the emotional realm. They were supposed to be marginal, accessory, acting as backing vocals or sitting quiet in the background but they stormed the stage and took the lead. When I was a Christian, I used to think that this might be one of God’s ways of helping us deal with traumatic events of the sort. By throwing a red herring our way. Diverting our attention from loss to something more tolerable. Tricking us into suffering from a more lenient affliction. Because no matter how horrible these emotions are (anger, remorse, outrage, disgust, disappointment, bitterness, resentment etc) they are not as painful and devastating as the sheer sense of loss. Anything but that lingering ache of having lost something we had. Anything but that melancholic malaise eating at you. Now I no longer believe in God, but I still think this is a defence mechanism, our way of dealing with traumatic loss. Our way of deflecting the real drama. Juggling and trading off different pains. Playing tricks to dull our senses. Disguise. Camouflage. Substitution. Replacing loss with something akin to it but less horrendous.

*

My dad is not dead, he is missing. Every time I think of him, I cannot find him in the appropriate drawer of my mind, where dead people usually end up. I don’t think I can put this down to a residual Christianity that survives in me, to the idea that we are actually immortals, that death is an illusion, since this misplacement doesn’t apply to other people. My mind doesn’t reject the label in itself, the category of dead people, for that compartment got well populated over the years. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends, pets, neighbours, you name it. It’s just that when it comes to my dad, I cannot visualize him as dead. He is just missing, absent, hidden from us, unavailable, somewhere to be found. But not dead. And this is one of the reasons why I feel that my mourning is lacking. You cannot properly mourn someone unless you give up hope and accept the finality of their death and their irreversible disappearance. Once the disbelief is shattered the grief can go full-on, unrestricted. You put everyone in their right boxes and the strange http 404 error is finally fixed.

*

On his deathbed he never mentioned the fact that he was dying. The elephant in the room … had a scythe but nobody talked openly about that. Which I found to be odd since he was a man of faith. There were no wise words passing on to his children. No sermonic rambling or Bible quotations. No formal handover of our mum’s care to us, like Jesus did with his mum. No attempt to apologize, to settle accounts and emotional debts. The patriarch of the family went full French exit with his departure. Even though I was there at the time I was left with this strange feeling that we didn’t have a proper send-off and that we didn’t say goodbye to him.

*

We all indulge ourselves at some point in counterfactual reasoning. Fantasizing about turning the clock back and removing a link in a chain of past events in order to fix mistakes we made or to change painful outcomes. So here an exercise to put yourself at the test, to see where your heart is (Matthew 6:21): if you were given a chance to counterfactually erase one single event from your past what would that be? I’m sure for all of us the competition would be fierce, for we all have tons of things we would alter if possible. From nasty things that happened to us to nasty things we did to other people. As far as I am concerned, erasing her death would be my first choice, without blinking an eye, without the slightest hesitation. There’s a long litany of horrors I would gladly change but her death tops everything. I would rather keep every instance of violence, bullying, abuse, disappointment, rejection, humiliation, betrayal, failure etc and save her. Nothing comes close to the pain of losing her. The longing to be reunited with her will never fade away in me.  

*

Why do I feel I am no longer whole since she died? Wasn’t I whole before her? Do the people we love become a part of us and alter our substance that much? For good? Do they rip out bigger pieces from us when they die and leave? If we love lots and they die on us can we be lessened to the point of inexistence?

*

South Korea – 156 people crushed to death in Seoul at Halloween celebrations. Indonesia – 135 dead in a riot and stampede that broke out after a football match. Philippines – 98 dead in a heavy storm that hit the country. Turkey – 41 dead people in a coal mine accident. Somalia – 120 killed by a car bombing in the capital, Mogadishu. India – 182 dead in a bridge collapse, many of them children. You can find these headlines in the newspapers, right at this moment. Horrible disasters, taking place at the same time, in the span of a few days, not spread over a couple of months or a year. I used to agonize over such tragedies when I was a Christian, trying to reconcile them with the concept of a benevolent God. And it’s such a relief that now, as a nonbeliever, I am no longer subject to this mental torment, fuelled by a never-ending streak of tragedies. The easiness with which my fellow Christians dismissed the problem of theodicy was disturbing. “God works in mysterious ways” is such a nonsensical defence. There’s nothing mysterious about being crushed to death by a crowd on a street. Burned alive at a music venue. Raped and killed by a Russian soldier. Drowned in a river holding your child’s hand after the bridge under your feet collapsed. Torn into pieces by a bomb. If I were a parent and I would allow my kids to be burned alive I could never say “oh please, you don’t understand, I am being … mysterious”. And yet, this is our line of defence when it comes to God. We fill the gaps with this mysterious crappy matter. Being an atheist has a lot of downsides but not having to explain evil, death, pain etc is the main, if not the only, advantage you get. This doesn’t mean you are not saddened and flabbergasted at the view of these tragedies. The thread of life is so fragile, and it can get broken at any time. Witnessing all these disasters I got to the point where I am grateful for my life and for the years I lived so far. For I have lived longer than most of these people were allowed to. If I get to live more, I look at it as a bonus not as an entitlement. Not taking life for granted and knowing that life can be taken from you in such absurd, meaningless, petty, ridiculous ways and at any time should be in our minds constantly.

*

Haunted by this image of my mum, sitting at his deathbed, broken-hearted, lost for words, hunchbacked, overwhelmed with sorrow, holding and kissing his hands for hours on end. The same hands that used to turn into fists and hurt her. What a strange thing is this redeeming love that forgets and forgives everything. “Love keeps no record of wrongs.” (1 Cor. 13:5)

*

House of the Dragon. I watch the episode in which the king Viserys is dying in a state of horrified frenziness. The gruesome depiction of aging and the misery of death is haunting. A masterclass in cinematography. The decrepitude of his body and his mind takes me back to my dad’s when he was dying, and it fills me again with horror, shock and sadness. I watch Viserys’ demise and I relive all my dad’s degradation, his delirious agony and mental pain. I can’t for the love of me get over the misery and ugliness of our dying. Nothing shook me more to the core than watching Tori, my dad, and prior to them, a close neighbour, sinking into decrepitude and dying. For a while, death and life overlap, disputing the ownership of that body and mind. Witnessing first hand that fight between life and death is horrible and faith shattering. Nature is cruel. Death in itself, ceasing to exist, is already an outrage, a wound and a trauma to our existence. There’s no need to get there through a horrible process. The fact that most of us don’t die of sudden deaths but through a slow, painful, repulsive transition to death is adding insult to injury. We are punished for our sufferings; we are punished because we were punished.

*

Advertisement

My father didn’t really know me. At all. He didn’t know what makes me tick, what I am made of, how damaged or brilliant I can be. To my shame, he wasn’t even privy to my mundane self since most of the time he had no idea what’s going on in my life. There’s always this huge gap between parents and their offspring that I find horrifying. Some parents manage to bridge the gap and cross it, but most of them remain in the dark. To give birth to something that is not you, that is so different, so foreign to you is a terrifying experience that all parents have, but to be clueless about what you brought into life, to raise someone who eludes you completely, to not know your own child takes this to another level. I don’t blame him though, since, like I said, it’s more like a structural fracture that emerges between parents and kids and less a parenting failure on his part. But it’s horribly sad. The thought that I could have a kid and that my understanding of him would be skin-deep, stopping at the surface, that I would be in the dark about the way he feels, the way he navigates through the difficulties of his life, his anxieties, his fears, his mental torments, his coping mechanisms, his thoughts, his pleasures, his likes, his desires, his dreams, his hopes etc makes me shiver with horror. If he could now have a look at who I am, from the inside, he would be dumbstruck. Who is this stranger he called his son for all this time?

*

When someone we love dies our mind tries to apprehend their disappearance. In the same way we try to understand what’s behind a magical trick performed on us, when something vanishes into thin air in front of our eyes. But I find that with death our mind gives up quite hastily. Because we have a name for it, because we have assigned a word for their magical disappearance (death), even though the word doesn’t explain anything, our mind stops even trying. We just accept it. Death. We shrug. We move on. No further inquiry.

Only a kid would try to deconstruct our unsatisfactory answer and look further.

– Where did grandpa go mummy?

– He died.

– What do you mean he died? What do you mean by that?

– Pause.

*

The shocking stiffness of their body. In death our flesh loses not only its warmth but also its softness and plasticity. We turn into cold, hardened objects. I had some idea about stiffness but not about the stonelike sensation and the alienation that comes with it when you touch them. The shock you have when you hold into your arms the hardened body of someone you love is something else and nobody can prepare you for it.

*

Resurrection is a collective dream mankind has got since the beginning of time. A Jungian archetype I follow faithfully. Since he died, I dreamed about him three times and in all of these dreams he was resurrected. Not just alive, as if nothing had happened, as if the setting was before his death and we were oblivious to it. He did die and we all knew it, but through some bizarre interventions (in one my mum gives him some CPR, incredulous of his actual death) he was brought back to life. He is now weak, fragile, unwell but we are all happy he’s got another shot at life. I wake up in a state of frenziness, overwhelmed by this mixture of joy that he is alive and the disappointment that is not true. Schizoid is my middle name.

*

You can’t replicate with humans the bond you have with an animal.  There’s an intensity to it that humans cannot provide with the same continuity. Because animals are simpler creatures, the bond with them is stronger and almost indestructible. Until death do us part is better matched by our animal friends than by the bond between humans, which are fragile and fickle and rarely survive the wear of time. The imprinting mechanism, that in most cases, sits at the core of their attachment to us cannot be written off. We are their world, their life, their gods, their mothers, their fathers, their kids, their lovers, their everything. Who on earth can possibly match that? What human can compete with that level of faithfulness and religious devotion?  When we lose them to death, we lose access to the purest form of unconditional love and loyalty we can get, matched only by the bond between a mother and her child.

*

Guilt-ridden. For not putting her to sleep. For not releasing her from suffering sooner. For not humanely killing her. For not being able to look into her eyes while she would take her last breath into my arms. As regrettable as it might sound, I owe my sanity to this weakness. I have no doubts that putting her down would have tipped me over the edge to sheer madness. I would have lost it completely. With my dad is the other way around. I carry a sense of guilt for not pushing him harder, for not going the extra mile to buy him more time. Guilt is indeed a nasty companion of death.

*

Even now, six months later after his demise, dad’s shirts and pants are hanging in the same places. As if nothing happened. I am seated at the kitchen table, in my parents’ home, eating, while from some hangers on the wall his shirts are staring back at me, making me uneasy. In one of his pants you can see the pocket is full, bursting with stuff he used to collect obsessively (wires, keys, pieces of paper, money, corks etc). Once or twice I buried my head in them shirts and wept like a child. Leaving things untouched after someone’s death, in an attempt to freeze time, is a clear sign of depression. But I wouldn’t challenge my mum on this since, when it comes to dealing with death, I’m not much different. I procrastinate. I linger. I dwell on it. Anything but admitting the finality of death.

*

La capela, dupa predica, lumea se grupeaza in bisericute. Catching up as usual. Copii, pandemie, joburi, nepoti, inflatie, nunti, botezuri, sfaturi despre muraturi, vaccinuri, concedii, you name it. Nimeni nu vorbeste despre tata. In afara de mama nimeni nu pare sa stie de ce se afla acolo. Nu stiu ce e mai trist, sa nu vina nimeni la priveghiul tau sau sa ai un priveghi care sa nu fie despre tine. Ca un politist de pompe funebre, incerc constiincios sa il aduc pe tata la propriul lui priveghi, sa il introduc in subiectele de discutie. Bag vreascuri pe foc dar simt mereu ca fara inputul meu focul se stinge repede de fiecare data.

Exista intotdeauna o prejudecata pe care o avem fata de cei carora le moare cineva. Credem ca e dureros si stanjenitor sa vorbim despre cei morti cu cei indoliati. Ca e de preferat sa trecem totul sub tacere. Sa nu stingherim cu indiscretia noastra. Cand dimpotriva, reflexul pe care il avem cand ne mor cei dragi e sa vorbim intruna despre ei. Sa-i netacem. Sa-i nemurim vorbind despre ei. Sa nu-i lasam inghititi de uitare. Dureros pentru cel indoliat nu e sa vorbeasca ci sa nu vorbeasca despre cel pierdut. Un priveghi in care esti injurat e de preferat unuia in care nu esti pomenit.

*

Tags: , ,

What is new this time is that I can’t seem to get myself to acknowledge his death. There’s a veil on my eyes that hides it from me and protects my mind from the horror of it. If you bump into me on the street and suddenly ask what’s been new with me for the past six months I wouldn’t answer: “oh well, unfortunately my father has died”. That information is just not there, not on a conscious level. I do know something horrible happened, because the pain, the trauma and all that is there but I cannot quite put my finger on it. Its source eludes me. It’s like having had a car crash accident and now, coming out of a coma, I feel bruised, covered in hematomas, traumatized but it’s all blur and I can’t put all the pieces together about how I got in that state. The last thing I remember is that my dad was dying of a horrible, horrible death but not that he did pass away. The last save checkpoint is before his actual demise. I have to dig deep to get to the hard fact of his actual death and get hit by such a disheartening realization.

*

Church gathering at the chapel around his coffin. Eulogies for my dad. Prayers. Choral singing about resurrection. I listen to their sermon in dismay but resigned. Their theological rambling brings back memories and I remember the reasons why I could never feel at home with their views. At some point I am even singled out in their speech, along with some hints to the prodigal son, and I regret not being able to make a statement by storming out. I never shied away from expressing my opposition to them, but now, for his sake, I stay put and play ball. I bury the hatchet to properly bury my dad.

*

Not believing in God anymore made his dying so much easier to deal with. It’s not that I am capable of the serene resignation atheists are talking about. I loathe that. It’s just that I no longer had to partake in the theodicean war. Reconciling God with my dad’s horrible dying was no longer an issue. It is what it is. No one to blame and hold to account. No gods to defend or to scold. No need to argue with an imaginary loving deity about cruelty. I was spared the excruciating torment I had to go through two years ago.

*

When Tori died my mind played obsessively for a couple of weeks the horrific details of her last days. The idea that I could forget the tiniest detail or repress them and inadvertently speed up the healing was suffocating me. The anger I had in me for her undeserved suffering was bordering on self-destruction. Nothing of this sort now with my dad. There’s no vivid details of his agony in my mind. No gore imagery playing on a loop. I know the suffering he had to go through was horrifying but when it comes to actual details, I have to retrieve them from my memory with some effort. They have been pushed away at the edge of my conscience, repressed, concealed, underplayed, edited, revised, softened, rewritten. At times glimpses of his agony break the censorship of my consciousness and I am utterly shocked by what I recall.

*

It’s been two years today since she died. I will carry with me the dread and heaviness of that day for the rest of my life. Was I right to worry about healing and moving on at a pace I found disheartening? In many ways I was. It’s not that the healing will ever be completed. For some people that would be true, for some it wouldn’t. But life is indeed like living in flowing waters, pushed forward by alluvium. You might stall and get stuck once in a while but eventually you will move on. The only thing that has remained unaltered, two years after she died, is my love for her. The intensity is all there, untainted, intact. I would still cross mountains and oceans, I would still go to the end of the Earth on foot to be with her if that would be possible. In two years I didn’t move an inch from that and I don’t think I will ever do.

*

I’m not the only one stricken by disbelief. Expecting him to suddenly show up, to come back from his journey or his stay in a hospital or whatever. My mum finds herself looking through the windows to see him in the garden or crossing the street from his shopping rounds. We know he is gone but not that he is dead. That would be horrible. We are stalling and dodging the bullet of truth as long as possible. Our minds play tricks on us to help us cope with the harsh truth of his definitive departure.

*

I’m haunted by the image of his deathbed scene. He died like an animal in a cage. Keeping me awake in the night while he was rattling the bars of his improvised cell. His mind was severely damaged but his instinct for freedom was intact. He wasn’t ready to give it up without putting up a fight. The need for freedom was the last thing that died in him. At the time, exhausted by sleep deprivation, I was rather annoyed with his restlessness and his attempts to escape. Now, that the dust has settled, I can see beyond the nuisance of having to restrain him and I can recognize in that relentless stubbornness his need to regain a sense of dignity and I am profoundly ashamed and guilt-ridden. Subjecting him to restrains, however needed for his own sake and protection, feels cruel to me now. Nobody should die like an animal in captivity, but they should be given the dignity of dying on their own terms.

*

Grieving feels different this time. I didn’t come undone like two years ago, when Tori died. Now the main theme is disbelief not anger, but also the pain is less striking, more discreet. Do I get used to the notion that we are mortal, finite beings? Do I love him less than I love her? Does being a nonbeliever now make things easier? Do we get altered by each death of our loved ones to the point where we just feel numb or hardly anything at all?

*

We all have misconstrued ideas of what Alzheimer is about. It sounds exotic and we think is about forgetfulness. About forgetting where you put your keys or misplacing things. But that is the surface, the trivial layer of your condition. In Alzheimer you actually lose yourself. You lose the keys to your self, to your own identity. You are dead before having died. Waiting in the dementia’s realm for your body to catch up with your mind and die as well.

*

I find the idea of dying on your birthday fascinating. Coming full circle is just beautiful. I’m no longer a religious person but I can’t help trying to extract a religious meaning from such an unlikely event. It shouldn’t really matter since it’s a trivial detail but the fact that he died on the same day of his birth was a solace to me and gave me a bit of consolation. It is said that in Alzheimer you go backwards, in reverse, losing, at first, your most recent cognitive skills and memories until you reach the first ones you acquired as a baby. Maybe that’s true and my dad reached the beginning of things and then he just died, bringing the past, present and future together.

*

All animals need a shelter. We humans go deeper than this basic need. We need a home. We need to establish an emotional bond with a specific place. We isolate a place from the wild environment, we claim it for us and make it our own. We turn chaos into order. We turn alterity into familiarity. We tame that place and call it home. It’s part of what makes us humans and distinguish us from the other animals. Our homes become part of our identity and give us the sense of belonging we so much crave.

We all experienced at some point the anguish of being stranded in an airport, railway station, hotel, hospital, city etc, due to bad weather conditions, delays, critical events, accidents, injuries, surgeries, fleeing war, migration, political turmoil, pandemics, you name it, longing for the security of our homes. We all experienced first-hand the anxiety of not being home when, for some reasons, we didn’t feel well and we could hardly wait to finally get back.

Of all the quirks and afflictions my dad had to suffer in his last months the one I found the most devastating and debilitating was that he no longer recognized his home. His mind cracked up, he got lost and he had no breadcrumbs trail to follow and find his way back home. As if he was stranded forever in transit. The anxiety we could read on his face for feeling he is in a foreign place to him was heart-breaking. Not feeling well and not feeling at home must have been horrifying for him. He was robbed by the least comfort animals are given when they feel they are dying – they retreat to their nest, den, burrow, lair etc to die in peace. Our attempts to make him remember and recognize his place were fruitless. He kept wanting to leave his home and find the protection and comfort he was missing. At times he didn’t recognize us as well, but that was for short periods of time and there was no pain attached to his memory loss. But the damage of not recognizing his own home was permanent, painful, to say the least, and psychologically debilitating. The comfort and protection you get from the familiarity of your home was taken from him. He was like a slug. A snail who lost his shell. Scared and homesick. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was, in the end, what actually killed him.

(home)

I hated him when I was a child. The Oedipus complex might be just a crappy theory but in my case it sort of fitted right: I wanted him out of the picture. I wanted the abusive progenitor to leave. I was anxious when he was around and relaxed when he was away at work. Heaven for me was a place where I could be only with my mum and my siblings, away from his intrusion and abuse. No father at all was better than a lousy father. I hated his strength and the power he had over our lives. I owe him my incessant obsession with injustice and ethics.

Later in life, I got to love him. At some point, like in a videogame, he lost his magical powers. He became weak, debuff, diminished, shrunk, beatable. The mighty Samson morphed into an oldster. His reign was over. In addition to him getting old, something else happened. I also got older and came to realize I am no saint either. Despite my attempts to be totally different from him and not forge myself in his image I found out I could be abusive and tyrannical as well. I can be my father. His convoluted moral DNA runs through my veins. This didn’t change or excuse his parental failures, but it changed my perspective. He was finally relatable and lovable. He was finally just another troubled soul failing to do right. He was finally a good father. The prodigal father came back home and reconciled with his son. And then he died. He finally got out of the picture. The circle is now complete.

Happy Birthday dad and rest in peace. You’ll be dearly missed.

God doesn’t reveal himself to us. When you are a child and you have no concept of a god, he doesn’t introduce himself to you from a burning bush or a whisper in your dream. There’s no thunder, no lightning, no rapture, no vision, no tongues of fire, no doves, no pillars of cloud guiding you, no descent from Heaven or chorus of angels at your confirmation ceremony. God doesn’t deliver himself to you, he is delivered to you by your culture and community where you grow up. And more than anything, God is given to you by your parents. As a child you don’t have a direct access to God but through an intercession. Your parents stand between you and him. In the absence of any epiphany, they have to speak for him, and few parents realize what a huge responsibility that is. Few parents understand what’s at stake when they pass on their religious understanding to their offspring. When your child embraces or rejects God they don’t embrace or reject God but your version of it. They react to an image of him. They react to your projection. Your understanding of God facilitates or obstruct their access to God.

I too got the first idea of God planted in my head by my dad and I struggled with that version my entire life. In our home, he was the religious patriarch, responsible for our catechetical instruction and the version of God that was spoon-fed to me was a mere caricature. Half based on the biblical lore and half based on his limited understanding. Half monster and half angel. It took me a while to realize that I found myself in a sort of a straw man situation. Since our initiation into divine is done by proxy not by God himself, we can end up addressing or fighting not the real God, like Jacob, but a defected replica of him. Whether you eventually accept his dominion or reject it is neither here nor there, but you have to make sure you do this to the most accurate description of him. As far as I am concerned, I ended up questioning any description of God predicated on biblical understanding. And since I used to blame my dad for poisoning the Christian well for me and for being a stumbling block on my path to faith, I should now let him off the hook and forgive him for his poor delivery of God. In all fairness, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Any version would have missed the mark. He can now die in peace, without any sense of failure for not delivering the Almighty God to his son. One less sin to atone for will hopefully make his already horrendous transition to eternal demise easier.

When she died she took with her what was left of my faith. For me, God died at the same time she died, not on a cross but on a blanket, covered in metastases and disfigured by cancer. It’s not that her painful death engendered a crisis of faith in me. I had it all along since I entered adulthood. I had given up already on His Church by the time I finished University and then at a later point I gave up on the inerrancy of His Scriptures. My apostasy was bound to happen sooner or later. Her death just broke the last shackle of faith and pushed me to admit I no longer believed in God. In losing her, I lost, in one go, not one but two pillars of my existence. One death, two coffins.

*

In some ways losing my faith should give me a wicked sense of satisfaction. One thing that shocked me after she died was just how well we are equipped to move on and adjust to someone’s disappearance. Thousands of years of evolution installed in me a coping mechanism stronger than my pain. I didn’t go out on the streets howling like a lunatic. I didn’t tear off my clothes out of despair like our ancient ancestors. I didn’t stop eating, sleeping, laughing, fucking, breathing. I bottled up my grief. I was devastated but I was functional. The fact that we can carry on is a disgrace to me. The fact that we survive and get to keep our sanity over the death of our loved ones sickens me. So, even though her death was not the source of my crisis of faith at least she managed to shake off the last vestiges of belief in me. That counts for something. 

*

Mourning two deaths instead of one might make things harder. I have no idea. It’s not like I had to deal with death in the past too much so I’m no expert in what level of bereavement is considered normal and sane. But what surely makes things worse is the way in which the two deaths are connected. His death puts her death in a different perspective. His death makes her death definitive and real. If you believe in God, death is an illusion. If you don’t everything else but death is an illusion. Death is the only reality we have. The crutch of hope vanished and so the despair that comes with it is unbearable.

*

I am told that I would end up in an asylum if I keep going on like this, if I won’t put a lid on my grief. Huh. This is what they call pain and mourning over someone? Where they see too much grief I don’t see enough of it. Where they see lingering pain I see oblivion taking over. Where they see dwelling on loss I see a healing process I cannot defeat. And why is healing and letting go healthy? Why would I want to heal at the cost of losing what I have left of her? I know I am not an ordinary guy in many respects, but is the gaping chasm between me and them that huge?

*

Dying and death are two different things. If death in itself doesn’t shake your belief in a benevolent God, the gratuitous spectacle of degradation and pain when someone is dying should do the trick. How someone’s faith can survive witnessing that grotesque spectacle is beyond me. Hoping against hope will never cease to amaze me.

*

Hell is not being able to protect someone you love. There’s nothing worse in this life than that sense of helplessness. Not even rape, injustice, betrayal or physical pain. Parents who outlive their children, unable to save them and going through that hell of powerlessness are for me proofs that God does not exist or if he does, he is just a cruel invisible Overlord not a Heavenly Father.

*

In the first months after she died missing her was somehow underwhelming. How can you properly miss someone when your mind is so consumed with them? How can you properly grieve over someone whose presence is still felt so strong? You do it but it’s subpar and curbed by that sense of presence. It takes time for them to fade away, it takes time for you to accept their departure and fully realize what death entails. It takes time to really, really miss them. In some ways, for me, only now the mourning begins. Only now her absence is overwhelming and I miss her like mad.

*

This year I didn’t put up a Christmas tree or any winter decorations. I am in no celebratory mood. Not because of the pandemic for that was a blessing in disguise for the most part. But because the desolation of last Christmas is still fresh in my mind. She loved to sit by the Christmas tree, on the red socks and stare at it. Last year, the least festive season ever, I did it for her sake though. I knew it would be her last Christmas tree. She would look at the Christmas lights, blinking on and off, from her deathbed. The reflection of those flickering lights in her big sad eyes will haunt my future Christmases forever.

47fd79a41eacf2033db5def269a5c8892

After she died, for a month or two, I couldn’t look at her pictures. Every time I got a glimpse of her image, from the corner of my eye, it was so painful I thought my chest would explode. Then gradually that pain faded away and I was able to browse through the vast collection of pictures I took of her. I would look at her pictures and videos every night before going to bed with a sort of a religious zeal. Now again, in the last weeks, I find myself incapable of looking at her. The pain of seeing her photos is for some strange reasons once again unbearable. It exceeds the threshold of safety so if I get to see a photo of her somehow I instantly feel the urge to turn away and protect myself. Not that I can escape her image entirely. If I close my eyes, she is always there, in front of my eyes, like painted on my inner eyelids.

*

The thought that there’s nothing left of her, that I will never see her again and that I will never be reunited with her fills me with despair. What’s the point of everything if we cannot secure the most important thing in life? Yes, I am capable of moving on and, in spite of suffering for her loss, of still enjoying life. I can carry on living a good life like I did so far. I can carry on with my interests. I can even buy into the idea that we are here to better ourselves, to learn, to experience and fulfill our potential. I can even try to achieve things people are usually proud of – I could write books, I could set up a movement within the evangelical faith, I could start finding a way to activate the political animal in me and fight our deplorable governments etc. But what’s the point of all that if the only thing that matters is beyond our reach or given to us only for a short while?  We need immortality to validate our struggle. We need immortality to gain relevance. We need immortality to save anything we do from pettiness, no matter how great it is. I cannot do it like most people, in complete blindness, building castles in the air. What’s the point to take life seriously if our love cannot be saved? What’s the point of loving in the first place if I cannot take that love with me in eternity? What’s the point of being saved if I am separated from the ones I love? What’s the point of doing anything if our loved ones are doomed to destruction and nothingness?

*

Magical thinking comes in many shapes and forms. One way is the irrational belief that if you think of something bad it won’t happen. The fact of thinking of it in itself, of considering that terrible outcome will prevent it from happening. Usually when something bad happens to us we are saying “I never thought this could happen to me”. The hardship comes as a total surprise. So if I had thought it could happen to me maybe I would have been spared. The trick then is to anticipate and consider the hardship and so to keep it away. All this magical thinking takes place on a subconscious level. It runs under your conscious radar. You know it’s silly and irrational but that won’t stop you from hoping to alter the course of an event by mere thinking. As if it’s enough to expose and uncover a plot to soften the blow of surprise and spoil its power. As if since you think of it first the gods can no longer throw it at you.

It goes without saying that it doesn’t work. I was always scared that she would develop a cancer of some sort. My fears, my anticipation, my constant thinking of such a terrible outcome didn’t do the trick. It happened regardless. You would think that the ordeal of living in fear of something would be enough. That you won’t have to go through the real thing. But life rejects clear patterns.

By the same token, you might think that once cancer screwed your life one time it won’t happen again. You might think that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. That it would be highly unlikely, let alone cruel, to come across the C-word again in your life. But like I said, life doesn’t follow patterns consistently. Every time you think you discovered a pattern and a rule, life will break free and betray them. Magical thinking falls short again. Lightning does strike twice in the same spot. If you don’t believe me ask CS Lewis. His life was shattered to pieces when his mum died of cancer when he was nine years old. You would think that the trauma of losing the person he loved the most at such an early age due to cancer won’t strike again in the same way. Think again. Fifty years later cancer will shatter his life once more, taking away his beloved wife. The dice our gods use must be loaded and tampered with. No wonder it was only then when his faith got on the brink of erosion. When something hits you hard you are not shielded from a second blow. You would think that if you are already down you would be given a respite. But there’s no safe place from the cruelty of life, gods and people. When you are down and wounded expect nothing from mortals and immortals altogether. I should know better.

*

I feel like talking about her all the time. It’s as if the love for her is so overwhelming that it needs an outlet. This is one of the reasons I share my ramblings. I’m like an overflowing well that cannot be contained. I feel like stopping people on the street and tell them how beautiful she was and how blessed I was to have her in my life. I feel like cutting any discussion I have short and start talking about her instead. To hell with everything else. But I know it’s an impulse I need to control and that I cannot impose on people with personal things that cannot be easily passed on. In grief you go off to a solitary place that cannot be shared with everybody.

*

BoardingPass_MyNameOnMars2020 Tori

Today her name took off into outer space. Her name was written on a plate that will be carried hundreds of millions kilometres away from Earth. A seven month journey to Mars. I hope she will smile from beyond the stars seeing her name landed on the red planet. Maybe we are mere mortals, maybe we are just a speck of dust suspended in a sunbeam for a short while, maybe Keats is right and we are just “names written in the water“. If that is the case, her name on that plate on Mars will survive my death for a few hundred years as a mark in time, as a token of my endless love for her.

*

Even when I was close to God I have to admit that I never got to love Him more than I loved His creatures. Once in a while I came pretty close but never really went to the end with it. If jealousy would be one of His traits He would have all the reasons to strike me down. But I’m sure it’s not the case and He is pleased that at least I got to lose myself completely in the love for them. Maybe one day I will take the big leap. Half the journey is already done.

*

I was always pleased to learn that I share with CS Lewis this fascination with animals. When he was a kid he would spend most of his time in the Animal Land or Boxen, imaginary worlds he created with his brother, inhabited and run by adventurous odd creatures and fantastic talking animals. Since he was a kid until he died he was known as Jack. He hardly used his given name ever. Probably not too many would know or realize that he adopted the name of his dog Jacksie. When he was four years old his dog was killed by a car. He then took the name of his dog Jacksie and he would stubbornly answer to no other name. For the rest of his life. Talk about faithfulness.

*

When it comes to animals, mankind is split in two and is as polarized as ever. Half of humanity doesn’t understand the other half. Half of mankind would tell me bluntly “it’s just a cat” and that my grief is borderline pathological. Even on my side of humanity, the one that is into animals, some people see them as mere companions. They offer them shelter, food, protection and love. But they don’t see them as more than animals. It’s not that the bond they develop with them is somehow weaker. Not necessarily. It can be as strong as possible. But it matters though how you look at them. Taxonomy is important. I’m in a funny position since as a believer (albeit a terrible one) I had to reconcile evolutionism with creation so I ended up having a foot in both camps. I always had a sense of solidarity and brotherhood with them but in the last years it got deeper. To the point I can find humanity guilty of Specism. I do think we are a more evolved species as part of God’s plan but not that this entails we can rule over the other creatures. In this respect my belief and the Christian faith part ways. I could be accused of anthropomorphism, of attributing them humans traits and that I see in them more than I should. But I’m not sure that the criticism would hold. I don’t see them as people. It’s just that I could never ever escape the irrepressible thought, every time she looked at me, that there was SOMEONE in there. That behind those big eyes was not just a mere physical mechanism or a hollow shell. If we call that a person is open to debate. But that there’s somebody in there, in the same way my self is trapped in my body, I’m almost certain.

7ji8CWR

I don’t believe in reincarnation. But I wish I did and that she would come back as a bird to roam the sky freely and make up for the loss of her legs and for the misery of her end. To see her confined to a fixed place for months and to witness her transition from a playful being to a helpless paralytic was torture and painful beyond words. From the moment she realized she could no longer walk an expression of unmistakable desperation landed on her face that still haunts me to this very day. I hope she is running free now, roaming wild on hills covered in grass and meadows of flowers, exploring new skies and horizons. Heaven may be just a big delusion but one that for now keeps my sanity in check after the nightmare she went through. Run free my poor baby, run free…

*

In some cases of sexual assault the aftermath of a rape is more excruciating than the actual rape. It’s not that the rape in itself is not as worse as it gets it’s just that when rape happens you go numb to some extent, your psyche freezes, your mind shuts down so that you can cope with the horror and the indignity that your loss of freedom represents. But when your senses come back to life, when you reboot and your mental operating system is fully restored then the second lot of horror begins. You start to realize the full extent of what happened. The terrifying ordeal is replayed over and over in your head. Even though is a thing of the past rape is never over. Now you relive the rape at full alertness and the horror of it is presented to your mind in its whole significance.

This two-step process of dealing with a traumatic event is not unique. I find some similarities in the way some people process death and the loss of their loved ones. In many cases when someone close to you dies you go numb, you cannot grasp the extent of what has just happened as if things are not real and you switch to autopilot mode. And then after a while it hits you. You wake up. You get sober. No more sleepwalking. No more inertia. No more oblivion. No more anaesthetic rendered by your defensive psyche. The aftermath of someone’s death can be worse than their actual death impact. When someone has just died you cannot quite feel their absence. Their presence is so overwhelming after all. How can you accept they have disappeared when they are so still there? Your heart and your mind and the place where they lived is so full of them. But then after a couple of weeks their absence gains some weight and it hits you hard. You start to relive their agony and their death at full alertness. The numbness and the mild sedation that the shock rendered when their death took place are no longer there. Now the mourning begins.

While she was dying I didn’t have time to be angry and I didn’t allow myself to be perceptive about my own suffering. Her painful condition was my focus and the only thing that mattered to me. I was there to serve, to nurse her and ease her pain. Now that she has gone I can revisit her suffering and take it all in. Now I can be angry. Now I can rage about not being able to prevent that tumour from growing inside her and ultimately killing her. I can rage about not being able to protect her. I can rage about her final degradation. If at the time of her death everything seemed foggy and surreal to me, as if I was in a heavy dream and my pain somehow muddled, now in the aftermath of her death I am fully awake and alert. The rape of her agony and death can be carried out in my head with no anaesthetic.

*8771dd5ca5a1a0ee638428939167d3132

I’m not a morbid person despite my obsession over death. For decades I even couldn’t look at a dead body and I dreaded the thought of needing to attend a funeral. I don’t find death attractive. I am not drawn to death, to its mystery. I have no goth propensity. But the idea that we are mortal and that we are all actually DYING with every second that passes, fully ignoring the fact, was a constant obsession since I was a teenager. We live our life based on a psychological delusion, that we carry on forever, oblivious to death and to the disconcerting truth that we are mortal creatures. There’s a defensive mechanism right in the center of our conscience that makes us fully ignore this unbearable truth so that we can carry on living. As far as I am concerned this layer of protection never existed. The veil is torn and broken. The big elephant in the room exposed. I don’t understand how people go about their lives without thinking of death and living their life AS IF they are immortal. I am at a loss when I see their ruthless ambition, walking over dead bodies, as if those things matter in the least and they will be everlasting. The fact that thinking of death and our mortal condition is a pointless exercise since it doesn’t get you anywhere and doesn’t’ provide answers has some validity but is neither here nor there. At least it gives a better perspective of our life and of what’s really important.

*

When someone you don’t really know that well or who is not that close to you dies you think of their death as something terrible that happened to them. But when someone you love dies this simple perspective changes. You feel that their death happens to you. They are such a big part of your life that it’s something terrible that happens to you. You need to make an effort to overcome your solipsism and think of their death as something independent of you. Whenever I think of her death it takes a bit of effort to adjust my perspective and see it as her tragedy not mine, to feel outraged for her disaster not mine.

*

I don’t believe in a transactional God. The idea that I have to please God, to bribe Him with my deeds and with my acts of kindness as if He is a merchant or a clerk is preposterous to me. One of the reasons why I am a Christian (albeit an unworthy and unorthodox one) is because the concept of Grace breaks the transactional design that sits at the core of any religion. The eternal quid pro quo. In Grace you give and don’t expect anything in return. If you get something back, like gratitude, is great but it’s not necessarily part of the deal. I’m not saying that Christianity is not a transactional religion at all nor that because we are transactional creatures by nature we are evil. I’m saying that Christianity in Grace manages to transcend it. And that’s beautiful.

But if there’s any truth in the traditional imagery of religion with one balance pan gathering the good deeds and the other balance pan the wicked ones I know that, as unworthy as I am, I have at least one thing that I can put there when time will come, without being ashamed: my love for her. I might not have succeeded to love the people I came across the right way (even though I could dispute that) but I surely loved her the right way. I can’t boast about any achievements in my life for I always lacked social ambition  and I couldn’t care less about climbing the social ladder. But if we are in this life to experience love and learn how to love then I have at least one solid achievement: I loved her more than I loved myself. And that’s something. You might be surprised that some people have even less. If it’s not enough to be granted eternal redemption I hope at least that I can qualify for the Purgatory.

overdose_by_groundblood_by_kosmur

Cel mai odios lucru cand ai grija de cineva bolnav de cancer in faza terminala este ca suferinta si degradarea acestuia ajung atat de cumplite incat esti impins pana in punctul grotesc de a-i accepta si dori moartea. Nu ti-o doresti pentru tine, excedat de grija pe care i-o porti sau de oboseala acumulata, ci i-o doresti lui pentru binele lui. Iar sa iti doresti ca cineva iubit sa moara este o contradictie in termeni, este total impotriva naturii tale, o contorsionare psihologica cumplita, un viol sufletesc la care esti supus si din care nu poti iesi decat schilodit. Disonanta cognitiva te impinge in bratele schizofreniei. Sa te rogi zeilor ca cel iubit sa nu moara se inscrie in logica fireasca a lucrurilor. Sa te rogi insa sa moara, sa te rogi pentru moartea copilului tau, a parintelui, a sotului, este dement, stramb, injust, pervers, obscen, degradant, absurd, autodistructiv. Nimeni nu ar trebui sa fie impins pana acolo.

Zile la rand dupa moartea ei am fost nu atat suferind cat furios pentru efectul asta pervers. Ca am fost nevoit sa ii accept resemnat moartea si sa ma rog lui Dumnezeu sa se indure de ea si sa o ia dintre noi. How fucked up is that? She was the light of my life and yet I prayed for her to die. I prayed to God to extinguish that beautiful light. Her death came as a relief, since it ended her misery, but I felt sick to my stomach, cheated, led on, tricked. How can you link death to relief? These two words shouldn’t sit next to each other. Cum sa ajungi sa accepti inacceptabilul? Cum sa ajungi sa accepti moartea celui iubit? In preajma mortii ar trebui sa simtim indignare, suferinta, furie, manie sfanta nu impacare si usurare pentru moartea celui suferind. Moartea ar trebui sa fie limita, ar trebui sa fie cel mai odios lucru care i se poate intampla cuiva. Privelistea agoniei unui muribund insa te invata altceva. There’s something even worse than death – and that is dying. Inveti infrant ca moartea e preferabila agoniei. Esti vaduvit nu numai de copilul iubit ci si de scandalul mortii lui. De furia in fata mortii. Rasufli usurat si impacat. No fit of rage. No temperamental outburst. In sfarsit, a murit. Aleluia. Praise the Lord. How sick is that?

***

Cancer is something of a red-herring, a decoy, a smokescreen, a huge diversion meant to make us focus on suffering and looking after our loved ones and overlook the main culprit – death.

***

Cosmar azi noapte. Ca de obicei urlu in somn ca un lunatic. Se face ca sunt prin casa si ori de cate ori trec pe langa o oglinda surprind in imaginea reflectata o miscare, o umbra intunecata si imi dau seama ca este ea, desi stiu bine ca a murit. Ma intorc si evident nu este acolo. Lipsa de coerenta a oglinzii ma inspaimanta. She’s trapped beyond the mirror. I start screaming unable to reach her.

***

Descoperit o editura interesanta PushMePress care publica studii de filozofie a religiei. Citesc cu nesat “God and Evil” by Tristan Stone. Ajung inevitabil, ca in orice teodicee care se respecta, la nefericitul Iov. Nu pricep povestea acestuia. Ni se spune mereu ca este o poveste dramatica cu happy end. Ca dupa ce i se ia totul – proprietati, sanatate, sotie, copii – odata ce a trecut cu brio testul credintei, viata lui este restaurata cu asupra de masura – bogatie dublata, sanatate si reputatie refacuta, familia upgradata v.2.0. Doar ca morala invatata la cateheza nu da socoteala de unicitatea persoanei. Cum Dumnezeu este restaurata viata lui dupa ce i-ai omorat copiii? Nu inlocuiesti un copil mort cu un altul la schimb. Inlocuiesti o casa, un plug, o caruta, nu un prunc care nu se mai repeta. Poate la Euclid plusul cu minusul face zero, in psihologie insa plusul cu minusul da intotdeauna minus. In viata nu vindeci o rana cu o bucurie, nu vindeci un viol cu o binecuvantare asa cum iubirile impartasite nu le vindeca pe cele neintoarse. Plusurile nu anuleaza minusurile. Zece copii in plus nu o sa te vindece de copilul pierdut. Principiul compensatiei e pentru lucruri nu pentru oameni. Ori imi scapa mie vreun element de exegeza biblica sofisticata ori sunt mai ager decat carturarii teodicisti.

***

Cand cineva drag moare brusc si pe neasteptate socul pe care il ai e mult mai aproape de reactia normala in fata mortii care este oroarea. You are understandably overwhelmed. Cand cineva insa moare incet, in urma unei boli cronice si dupa saptamani sau luni de agonie elementul surpriza nu mai exista. When death eventually happens you feel oddly underwhelmed. Death didn’t just happen. You’ve been grieving over their death already for months.

***

2006 11 DSCN0244 RE

***

Trebuie uneori sa imi amintesc faptul elementar ca moartea ei nu e despre mine. Ca e despre ea. Ca moartea ei este ceva teribil care i s-a intamplat ei. Nu inseamna ca suferinta mea nu este legitima, este normal sa fiu coplesit de agonia prin care a trecut in ultimul an si de moartea ei, dar exista intotdeauna riscul sa fac un shift spre mine, sa ma victimizez si sa ma balacesc intr-o mila de sine dezolanta. Sa ma ratacesc solipsist in drama mea accesorie, pierzand focalizarea de pe ceea ce i s-a intamplat ei si numai ei.

***

Cand moare cineva si trebuie sa strangi sau arunci (huh) din lucrurile acestuia cum poti sa scapi de senzatia cumplita ca faci ceva ofensator? Inca sunt inconjurat de recuzita sfarsitului ei, de siringi, pampersi, medicamente, prosoape etc, litiera e in acelasi loc, desi din cauza paraliziei nu a mai fost folosita oricum in ultimele luni, farfurioarele pentru apa si mancare sunt in acelasi loc. N-am de gand sa transform her whereabouts intr-un mausoleu, nu o sa incremenesc precum nevasta lui Lot intr-un imobilism in care sa las toate lucrurile astea intacte, insa nu stiu cum le poti arunca fara sa ai impresia ca faci ceva nelalocul lui celui care nu mai este. Probabil ca raspunsul e la indemana: cat timp simti asta inseamna ca nu esti inca ready. Mi s-a parut intotdeauna creepy sa intri intr-o casa si sa vezi pantofii celui care a murit de ceva vreme la usa, hainele acestuia inca atarnate prin cuiere, ca si cum nu s-a intamplat nimic, insa nu stiu daca ideea cealalta de a sterge igienic urmele trecerii cuiva prin lume e mai putin dezolanta.

***

Is she gone? Is she gone? Is she gone? Will I ever be able to forget that heartbreaking question in the morning she died?

***

Sunt zile cand sunt coplesit de puritatea bond-ului pe care l-am avut cu ea, cand, prin contrast, gandindu-ma la calitatea persoanelor perindate prin viata mea, doliul se transforma in mizantropie. Ma uit in jurul meu, printre vecini, printre cunoscuti, pe strada, prin magazine, institutii, biserici, autoritati, tv, social media etc si ma crucesc. Imbecili, egoisti, meschini, impostori, arivisti, lacomi, violenti, tate hraparete, lingai ipocriti, narcisisti, iresponsabili, mincinosi, abuzivi, invidiosi, inculti, duplicitari, oportunisti, infumurati, fiinte pocite, tarate, slutite de absenta oricarui dram de spirit in ei. Ma gandesc la toti ipochimenii pe care i-am lasat sa se apropie de mine in viata asta doar pentru a ma trezi scarbit la capatul insotirii noastre. Am senzatia ca m-am trezit brusc intr-o pictura de Hieronymus Bosch. Ma gandesc la Hristos si nu inteleg cum a putut sa iubeasca asa o sleahta de depravati fara valoare in care chipul lui Dumnezeu de-abia se mai vede. Sa vada tot ce vad eu si totusi sa nu o rupa la fuga mancand pamantul. In momentele astea de mizantropie furibunda ma gandesc la ea si la faptul ca nu m-a dezamagit niciodata. Si visez la o lume in care oamenii nu mai exista, rasi de pe fata pamantului de nu stiu ce virus ucigas si in care sa fiu inconjurat doar de animale. Un animal e egal cu sine si nu dezamageste niciodata, pentru ca e incapabil de tradare. Daca te ucide o face pentru ca este in ADN-ul lui de creatura, nu pentru ca esueaza in impostura. Omul este singurul animal care si-a compromis designul, singurul animal care si-a lasat sufletul sa fie cuprins de coruptie. Prefer oricand compania animalelor decat a depravatilor humanoizi.

***

Diminetile sunt cele mai grele. Cincisprezece ani de coregrafie matinala in care ai fost centrul universului ei nu pot fi sterse doar pentru ca se intampla sa nu mai fie acolo si nu iti mai cauta privirea. It’s hardwired in your soul for good.

***

Mi se spune ca dupa o vreme o sa fie mai bine, ca durerea se va estompa si ca o sa imi treaca. Toate astea mi se spun cu sensul de consolare si imbarbatare in timp ce efectul lor scontat este exact pe dos – sunt realmente ingrozit! Tocmai pentru ca TRECE – imi vine sa strig din toti rarunchii. Tocmai asta ma inspaimanta, ca nu pot opri vindecarea, ca ea deja a inceput. Cum sa gasesc consolare ca o sa ma vindec de ea vreodata? Cum sa ma imbarbateze gandul ca dorul cumplit de ea o sa imi treaca? Problema noastra nu e ca suferim ci ca nu suferim indeajuns, ca nu putem opri tavalugul timpului, ca nu putem opri alinarea pe care o aduce trecerea lui. Nu de suferinta mi-e mie frica ci de nesuferinta, de vindecare. Avem prea multa imunitate si prea putin virus.

***

2019 0301_222408

exista primate carora le lipseste total conceptul de moarte. de sfarsit ireversibil. cand le moare un prunc isi continua existenta ca si cum nu s-a intamplat nimic. ii poarta in continuare cu ei, inerti, fara suflare, ii curata de paraziti, incearca sa ii alapteze, sa ii trezeasca din somn. omul e singurul animal in care constiinta mortii se instaleaza deplin. singurul animal capabil de un negot cu propria finitudine. si totusi masura in care o face este de cele mai multe ori rizibila. insignifianta. suntem protejati de un mecanism de autoconservare care impinge moartea din centrul constiintei in marginea ei. suntem incapabili sa o internalizam cu adevarat. moartea cuiva drag ar trebui sa ne paralizeze, sa ne inghete mecanismele de functionare dar nu reuseste decat sa le incetineasca, sa le gripeze, sa puna un strat de rugina care ingreuneaza temporar mersul lor mecanic, automat. de trei luni de cand a murit traiesc intr-un fel de perplexitate muta. dau tarcoale mortii ei fara incetare si nu pot sa-i cuprind grozavia. mintea mea inca asteapta sa i se explice scandalul absentei. cum e posibila nefiinta. in putinele dati cand inteleg ca a murit, cand inteleg cu adevarat ce inseamna asta mi se taie respiratia, incep sa ma sufoc si hiperventilez ca-ntr-un atac subit de panica. insa de cele mai multe ori ma simt protejat de o forma insidioasa de negare. inca astept sa mi se spuna ca este o farsa si sa o vad sarind dupa coltul unui fotoliu ca in jocurile noastre de-a v-ati ascunselea. inca astept sa-mi intoarca privirea din orice spatiu al casei pe care l-a umplut pana la satietate. ma culc cu ea in gand. ma trezesc cu ea in gand. nu exista celula pe care sa o sectionezi din trupul meu si in care sa nu o regasesti. mintea mea nu reuseste sa cuprinda necuprinsul mortii si se comporta ca si cum nu s-a intamplat nimic. faptul ca reusim sa supravietuim celor pe care ii iubim, ca nu murim o data cu ei, de durerea pierderii lor, ca nu incremenim in absurdul disparitiei lor mi se pare indecent si grotesc. suntem incapabili sa privim in fata adevarul brutal al mortii: nu existam. la scara timpului, a vesniciei, mai mult nu suntem decat suntem. specie deplorabila, zeii au stiut ca trebuie sa ne protejeze de trauma acestui adevar crud punand o pacla pe constiinta noastra. mistificam. inventam povesti care sa ne anestezieze durerea. ingerasi. stelute pe cer de unde, chipurile, cei plecati ne privesc cu seninatate. raiuri convenabile. nu suntem departe de primatele de care vorbeam. ne purtam mortii in continuare dupa noi ca si cum nu s-a intamplat nimic. daca ne-am ridica cu adevarat la inaltimea chemarii noastre si am intelege absurdul pe care il aduce moartea am cadea la pamant trazniti, pe loc. ne-am alatura astfel celor disparuti.


Blogs I Follow

literatura e efortul inepuizabil de a transforma viaţa în ceva real

The priest: Aren't you afraid of hell? J. Kerouac: No, no. I'm more concerned with heaven.

literatura e efortul inepuizabil de a transforma viaţa în ceva real

The priest: Aren't you afraid of hell? J. Kerouac: No, no. I'm more concerned with heaven.