I find it hard to grasp how someone can be so alive one moment and dead the next. Death steals in, from time to time, and leaves you feeling cold and shaken. He lingers for a while and when he’s gone, he’s completely absent until the next time he comes and he consumes everything like exploding paint in an enclosed room.
To think a person you know will never again talk, or walk, or laugh, just wiped off save for traces that will be hidden under a layer of dust, after a while. And other more lasting traces in the memory of loved ones, but always taking up less and less space until it becomes a picture kept in a tin box stowed away in some private, personal cupboard. The one you only unlock in private, pensive moments, once in a while.
I can’t understand death, the way I stare into black sky or behind closed lids and try to imagine my body surrounded by endless space—I can’t understand the vastness of space. But death sits on you like a dead weight, still until it lifts.