Skeleton with flowers look pretty (excerpt from my memoirs)
Between two accidents
I have been visited by death from birth.
There was a time before antidepressants when death was my constant companion, I existed on death row merely because I had been born. Anxiety made me sweat blood That is what my mother told me.
Death was my obsession her/his company protected me from profound aloneness,
Then death broke my heart with infidelity as she visited my father and ran off with him then my aunty and a good friend and recently my mother.
We are in the same room because death stands quietly in a dark corner and just occasionally hisses at me with a reminder that life is now and to be experienced along with the pain of loss and endings and saying goodbyes.
Death appears at the commencement of the ending of things and leaves me distraught.
I dream that my first born is a child again and on the brink of turning into what he is now at the time of writing this he is 41, and I am still helpless I watch events unfurl around him and I wake up knowing that my child is still lost. Watching my babies aging is a sweet pain.
Could it be that knowledge of death is to show us that all is like dry sand running through your fingers and each grain a precious moment or a friend?
My hypervigilance caused by the differences of, impermanence, and love and flowers.