I guess I’m still a child because I still don’t know how to be in funerals. I was in one earlier, and although the person was a complete stranger to me, I couldn’t help but tear up a few times. I was reminded of my own grandmother and the things I regret not doing for her when she was still alive. And then it made me think of Ma’am Agir. And also Teacher Agnes. Losses I took to the heart in this short life.
Death is painful, and all too powerful — it never fails to announce our helplessness when it barges in on our lives. I marvel at how adults take death without bawling their hearts out, how they can manage to exchange pleasantries and even crack jokes like nothing was wrong with the world. I sometimes can’t help but mull over my own mortality and those dear to me. The mere thought of it is painful to bear. I fear that their death will leave me somewhat wrecked. Even with this protracted grief I’ve been tricking myself with all these years. Even that will not help me through the inevitable.
Some days it is terrible to be human, and I am tempted to wish I had existed as a tree or a complex crystal instead.