The Dead are not Dead
It is the irrevocability of death that makes it so difficult to accept. I cannot through the force of my will bring back the people lost to me. I cannot breathe life into their bodies and make them smile again.
And yet, I do. I recall shared moments, I replay conversations, I recreate facial expressions, the gestures, the peculiar manners of speech, the gait, the posture; in sum everything that specified that person to me.
Death, perhaps, is not as final as it appears. In living, in loving, we each pass something of our interiority into those we are closest to; those moments of shared joy, grief, common experiences, a comment, an anecdote, those are the myriad ways by which, we breathe particals of ourselves, into the people dearest to us. It is how we live, well beyond our own physical lives.
And yet, I do. I recall shared moments, I replay conversations, I recreate facial expressions, the gestures, the peculiar manners of speech, the gait, the posture; in sum everything that specified that person to me.
Death, perhaps, is not as final as it appears. In living, in loving, we each pass something of our interiority into those we are closest to; those moments of shared joy, grief, common experiences, a comment, an anecdote, those are the myriad ways by which, we breathe particals of ourselves, into the people dearest to us. It is how we live, well beyond our own physical lives.