Drive alone: the road winds to gray and narrow oblivion, and though others have followed this road before, pilgrims even if they did not know it, no one follows you, and you follow no one. You’re the last drop of the leaky faucet dripdripdrip, finale of the flood drip-drip-drip, trickling down the road that winds to nowhere drip—drip—drip—

Walk alone: the crinkling path curls through yellowed graves and tired trees, no care but for the wilting remains of ephemeral deluges. Such consideration for the absent is foreign to most, but for you it’s become a housewife habit: for your weekly dose of the spiritual, instead of a godless Church you visit a soulless cemetery… but your decades of honoring the dead are coming to a close with your own imminence: and who will bring you wilting roses decades from now?

Stand alone: how many times before have you stood watching the indifference of the grave, praying for a voice, praying for a choice? Helplessly, habitually, you leave your sacrifice to draw an answer from your own mind: your first offerings had been red, red as the blood that had never been spilt, he had wanted an end but they pursued a means drawn out so cruelly intricate with its wires and tubes it should have been murder; then yellow for those moments that had managed, those moments that glimmered the soft gold of hope, the sweet gold of a promise that everything could be alright, that everything could be okay; but then white in the long trail of bell curve mourning, white as the world that killed him more surely and slowly than the cancer, white as the world you fled in favor of the very substances that send you to it too soon, white as the world they’re bringing you to tomorrow…

Weep alone: for there will be no one to weep for you.

i:

I think a fair bit of this is drawn from my Philosophy of Death & Dying class last spring. Most of it wasn’t proper philosophy at all, but philosophical discussion of today’s issues, not a series of abstracts like philosophy is generally taught… which though I would still like to take a class in, if only to work out the philosophy of suicide, I think that class was more useful for the society we live. Dying today is nothing like dying a hundred years ago, which is what all are traditions and customs are still arranged for. We aren’t ready as a society for these long, painful drawn out deaths, and we still cling to this idea that this… just horrendous way of dying is better than just a quick death. Death is the ultimate evil, avoid death at all costs. Well, fuck you, sometimes death is a hell of a lot more preferable to that kind of physical and emotional pain. If I had terminal cancer and I had six months to live and those six months would be in a bed on morphine drip, I’d off myself on the first opportunity. That’s not living until death, that’s dying until death, and I don’t see the point of standing for it. Some people say, Well, we’re not forcing you to take extraordinary measures to save your own life. Well, guess what, you are if ‘extraordinary measures’ doesn’t include sticking you in a bed full of tubes and wires to force feed & hydrate you, since if you try starving yourself out of your misery, 9/10 times the doctors will take it upon themselves to declare you incompetent. But, er, anyway. One aspect of this is those long deaths that are terrifyingly ill-managed in his country.

And yes, I have read Tuesdays with Morrie, and recently (last week), before anyone tells me I ought read the other viewpoint. I'm all for patient choice on the matter. I don't think doctor's should off terminally ill patients because it's "in their interests" or whatever. If the patients want that kind of drawn out death, sure, but they shouldn't be given the impression by our society that there's some kind of shame in not wanting life-however-painful. Just.... GAH.

The other bit, more cleanly, is how ignored cemeteries often are. There’s a cemetery I pass on my way to the bus stop (to get to uni); you don’t see many people stopping by and dropping off flowers, unless they departed recently. Which I find vaguely unsettling. You don’t need to pine after someone who’s died, but shouldn’t you at least put up a flower to their memory on the anniversary, at least, remember the good bits, the lessons learnt? And what's with fake flowers? They look terrible. How's that for artificial. They just fade in the sun and fray at the edges. Real flowers wilt...

I've only had a couple of people on me at this point in my life, and certainly not someone intensely close like a parent or a best friend, but… well. I’d be one of those people dropping off flowers every year, even if I moved an ocean away. I have to remember. That’s why I put everything into writing, so if I lose memory I can still recall by finding the day and the mood…

 Well, anyway. Um. My rambling was longer than my story, that's kinda pathetic on my part. Concrit? Especially on the title, I can't stand the title, but it's the only thing I've been able to think of.