grief

What can life be made to accommodate, what can one life hold inside itself without breaking.

Death of his own illusions: desire to fight for something, all his sacred rage directed and useful for once.

What could I become if I stopped worrying about death, about pain, about anything? If I stopped trying to belong?

I’m fighting, alone, every day. I fight with the hell that I survived. I fight with the fact of my own humanity. I fight with the idea that death is the only way of escaping this fact.

When a living person looks at a dead person, mightn’t the person’s soul also be there by its body’s side, looking down at its own face?

I might think I can’t take it anymore, that I can’t go on anymore, but one way or another I get past that.”

It does put a question mark over the whole thing, the way people can get sick, and God does nothing to help them. It’s hard to understand. But I don’t think it means there’s nothing there.

But I don’t have a map for whatever world lies beyond death. I don’t know whether there, too, there are meetings and partings, whether we still have faces and voices, hearts with the capacity for joy as well as sorrow.