I hate this. The not knowing.
But I refuse to go back to that scared and vulnerable, trembling little place where I was after Daniel died. That paranoia? That doesn’t make any sense.
Life doesn’t make any sense, I know. And neither do feelings, do emotions. The only thing that makes sense is the concept of irrationality.
But I can’t shake the notion that anything could happen. That frightens me. I don’t want to return to that cobwebby muddled corner with the nervousness and the hunched-up shoulders. I shouldn’t have to go back there.
Death could be outside my fruit roll-up clogged peephole and I wouldn’t have a clue. It’s anywhere; it’s everywhere. It seeps into our very pores and sets us up ticking, counting down until the second we go boom and BAM we’re no more. And the rest are left to sweep up the remains and keep on truckin’.
I don’t want to have to think about this shit. But I do. I do think about it and I do want to think about it. The macabre.
Isn’t it better to know? Isn’t it always better to know, to be aware? Even if it lends us that little sickly sharp edge of paranoid, isn’t it better to think ahead, to wonder? Keeps the imagination pumping red as the blood that still gallops with every flutter of the heart. And someday may prevent it’s untimely halt.