As I walked home tonight, slowing the pace in sync with the melancholy and burden within, I stepped over a page of the obituary left on the concrete path. The lady’s face and obituary post covered half the page, and she must have mattered to those whose life she touched. But the rest of the world moves on, uncaring and indifferent, evident from the many shoe marks upon the page.
Therein lies the very poetic nature of our sad reality. People die, and when they do, the world rotates without missing a beat.
We convince ourselves that we are eternal in how we live, constantly in denial of the fact that we shall meet our quietus one day. We pretend that the memories we create and share will exist till time ceases. But no… no one cares. For most, getting an obituary will be a temporary form of remembrance. Eventually , the portrait announcing your death find its way into a landfill. People forget and people move on.
On a note related to death, the lucky ones, who are ever so cheerful, take for granted the happiness they have. And the rest of us suffers from the cruelty and selfishness we inflict upon one and other. But just as happiness is temporal, so is suffering. The ultimate end is when the rented vessel (we call our body) lies in a beautifully crafted wooden box. And that box is all that it is, just a box to keep a relic of forgotten memories.
What is the point? Really, what is the point…
Some will have flashes of regret on their dying day, while others who have lived in constant agony will welcome the relief. I’m not certain that I will welcome the relief with open arms, but on some days, it beats having to feel the desperate and lonely emptiness of it all arising from this curse.