contemplating death

Before I begin, I'm going to warn that this post does talk about death and I delve deep into my mind. It's really a rambling way for me to express something and share my thoughts as they develop.

My mind is quite a place, so if you are easily upset by the talk of death and such I suggest you don't read this.

Ode To Death

I was so content

You, always there.

Me, always accepting.

My constant companion since childhood.

I met you with confusion

With the wonder and fear of a child

Looking at a cobra

Equally fascinated and terrified

By the long fangs that dripped venom.

I grew up alongside you.

Be it the birds outside,

My failed attempts at pet fish,

Or my great-grandfather.

You became a constant appearance,

And I became content with that.

People are confused

Once they learn of my familiarity,

Of my content,

With death.

I never noticed

the unusual relationship

that we shared.

Until you struck my school.

A classmate lost her father

And the building itself grieved.

But not I.

And we meet in confusion once more.

| | |

It's the little things that get you, you know. Recently, a girl at my school lost her father. We don't know how––they haven't told us yet––but it was abrupt and unexpected. At least for us, her classmates.

I've been to countless funerals––a majority of them before my tenth birthday. Death has been a part of my life. I'm used to it.

But seeing everyone crying, grieving––and me, sitting there with not even a shadow of pain clouding my eyes––I can't help but feel like I'm cruel.

She's crying. She lost her father.

I don't know her.

But others do.

And I can't help but feel like I'm supposed to offer condolences. I find it impossibly difficult, though, because I don't see a problem with death.

I've been raised with the fact that death is a part of life, it happens to everyone, and when you die you go to either heaven or hell. And having lost people, I know how I deal with it.

I am not numb––numbness insinuates that it's unnatural. I'm simply deprived of the fear and sadness and empathy that should come when others die––whether I know that or not.

I find it interesting. I cry about characters. I cry about national/global disasters. I cry about that. But for people who I've met––for however short or long––I don't grieve. I can't even bring myself to be sad.

Could I be numb? I mean, people I don't know make me cry more than the people who mean the most to me.

Am I broken?

Probably.

But all of us are broken in our own ways. I just channel my brokenness into the work I do. Writing books, poems, plays, music... painting... acting... etc. And that's okay.

| | |

Sorry that this was a bit of a darker post. It just... yeah. Sorry. I just had to get this out somehow, and I figured why not share the poem and the story to explain it.

~Olivia Ann