Death Anxiety, Or Memento Mori
Death Anxiety, or Memento Mori
Is this not all our lives? We spend this moment in the sunlight being afraid, and trying not to be, and trying to make up for the fear when it never leaves. I scramble, try to scratch my name in the Earth before She takes me back. Remember, remember. One day, my name will be spoken for the last time. If I am lucky, it will be by someone who never knew me. ‘Til then, I know what will happen when I die. The ones who loved me will miss me. They will speak my name. Tears will wet their eyes as they do, and some will blink them away like acid rain. I know. Silently they will scream, and rasp against the ache in their throat and the pit in their gut. No matter how ready the dead were to die. No platitudes will dull the scraping of our souls into raw piles of nerves. Nor should it. Remember, remember. Cry. Cry past the ache in your throat. Knees in the dirt; face in the sun and remember. Let your body shake. Let the hurt flow past the scars in your soul. Let it sting. Hold fast to the Earth, lest the grief swallow you whole. Anchored while you weather the storm. And when you emerge, sail on - and ever remember your death.
More Posts from Rococobean and Others
By Laura Gilpin
Gently I tuck another idea to rest in the mausoleum - an archived document, dead.
Melodramatic, I loudly intone that I had the best intentions to finish the work, and yet…
Damnit, it happened again.
What Makes a Man
What makes a man
Is being gentle
When we’re irate
It’s being humble
When we are great
It’s finding love
Amongst the hate
What makes a man
Is supporting one another
Building each other up
Picking up the pieces
When everything goes toes up
It’s shaking hands
To heal rifts
It’s being generous
With our gifts
What makes a man
Is helping friends
And making amends
It’s recognizing mistakes
And fixing them with haste
Boys may fight
But men do what’s right
That’s what makes a man
The instrumental becomes intrinsic if you let it
There is no I.
am i the central nervous system? the brain, the skin, the eye? the microbiome in my gut, or stardust in the sky?
the soul (what soul?), the heart, the breath, the hormones in my blood? the shadows splashed on Plato's wall, the people that I love?
the clothes on my back, the name on ID, the carbon in my bones? the air i breathe unconsciously, the place that i call home?
or am i just the nowhere man, the woman so alone? i am the dreamer of the dream, the - I - in i don't know
alexander heir
I never before felt this ache in my chest
when the lover on screen was found broken and dead.
But now
it's you. And it's me
in the story.
And when looking for death, there's no need to hurry.
My heart blocks my throat
I don't know what to do
Now the survivor is me
and the dead one is you.
Winterreise
etchings on zinc, 40 x 30 cm inkenstabell.com
