The weather outside is beautiful.
The sun is out; fluffy clouds drift overhead. In the back garden the clematis and lilies are blooming. There has been at least one honest to god butterfly; I haven’t seen one of those in so long it’s a bit like encountering a mysterious new species on a remote island one’s been shipwrecked on.
Oh, right. Nature. I keep forgetting about aspects of you after a year and a half of time shut up in my house, with nowhere to go and nothing to do.
Oh, right; when it rains sometimes little snails appear on the sidewalk.
Oh, right; if you drop food outside there are ants.
Oh, right; squirrels.
It is moving toward high summer, and the world outside is alive. I should relish this. It seems that everyone else is doing so; I see people walking by outside.
Instead, I am inside re-making all of the beds and washing all of our linens and thinking about death.
How, some day, I will not be here any more, and someone will be doing this for the last time, as they clear out all the remnants of me to make way for whatever will be there afterward. And I will be forgotten about entirely. Maybe that will take a while, or maybe it will happen right away. I have no way of knowing.
When it actually happens, of course, I won’t be able to care about it; I will be dead, and therefore not likely to give much of a damn about anything.
But I hope that not everything that I was gets thrown out with that week’s trash, whenever it happens. This is not a very new or original thought, I know. But it does have a way of bashing at your brain.
It feels positively unjust to be preoccupied by such things on a day like this.
Is it a terrible thing to put this kind of thing forth on the internet? It feels so much more perilous to express anything to the world than it did ten years ago, eleven years ago, more years ago than I like to think back when I was barely out of kid-hood and too naive to read the intentions of people I chatted with but did so anyway.
It seems so easy to say or do the wrong things.
I suppose one day all of that will be forgotten about, too, for all the comfort one can find in that.
The weather outside is gorgeous; the weather inside, not so much.
I suppose I should try and find something to do to relieve these feelings a little. I wonder how successful I will be.
Perhaps writing it down will help a little.