Nothing Special

I'm thinking about death all the time.

I've decided that the most exasperating thing about death is how incredibly mundane it all is. Nothing actually ever gets heightened or special or remarkable for anybody.

The air in the room stays the same even though you feel like it should be thinner or thicker or...something.

The minutes still happen one after another and even if you become hyperaware of your movements and your body and a random bit of tin outside the window that must be peeling slowly away from the building, none of it actually slows down or speeds up.

It would be nice if there was a really long 20 hour night where sleep just let-you-be for as long as your malaise lasted. And it would be nice if the days afterward didn't include any appointments or loading the dishwasher or cleaning ice off of your windshield, but everything really just keeps on going.

At first you think that the loss should hit you all at once, but then you realize it's worse than that. The loss just keeps going. One minute at a time.

I'm sure someone else already wrote this down and published it and I should cite them so it would be as if I had read their very insightful book, but that's not exactly how it came to me. It came to me while I was waiting in a long line of traffic at a stoplight behind some construction. We just sat there. Inching forward. Sometimes straining for glances at the freezing cold construction worker with the flag waving a few cars around. All of us sitting in our cars slowly dying. Still slightly mourning all the losses and disappointments. But living just as much as dying. And waiting to see if we would get under the stoplight before it turned red.

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