Psuedothought

Tag: love

  • Eulogy

    “I think it’s so easy to be bitter. To be angry at the wound left behind, but that’s the deal we make, right? That’s what we signed up for, whether you like it or not. When you choose to love, you are choosing to lose. You signed a contract. I mean, cause everyone either leaves or dies…. So really, we should be grateful. Really, we’re lucky that it hurts in ways we can’t know. perhaps we loved her in ways that we can’t understand and maybe that makes it all okay. Because the pain means you did something worth doing. You loved someone worth loving. “

    Jon stares over the podium to silence as a welling begins to surge in his chest. He always thought that when this day came, he would be strong where others couldn’t be. That he’d impart wisdom about the nature of death and grief, something he had pondered often. A professor in philosophy, what had his study prepared him for if not this? But as he looks out across a sea of grief, he is unsure. He can’t help but feel that it’s not okay. That when his wife was senselessly taken, that’s precisely what it was. Senseless. pain.

    ‘It’s not okay’ he felt.

    “no” he begins, “It’s not okay… I’m sorry, it’s not okay. The world is worse for having lost her and there’s really not much we can do. Contract or not, it’s awful. ” He pauses.

    “It’s just terrible.” He can hardly shake the words from his throat. “We can cry and we can love harder…and we can try to remember. That’s all we have.”

    Jon cries.

  • I’m Better Than YOU

    Is it in poor taste to want to stand out? To want to be better than I am? Better than you are? I sit on a streetcorner in Utrecht, swallowed by the crowd, overcome with sonder. The infinite context of every word spoken and every brick placed, laid bare for me to see. Every cigarette butt and rusty bike. Every drag taken on my joint that the coffeeshop had cut with tobacco, unbeknownst to me. The rain tapped my coat, and I wondered why I felt dizzy. I sat for hours observing that for which I lacked comprehension. The streets were like the canal. Flowing past me with no regard. From where you come, I know not; and to where you’ll go, I know even less. Dear river, your infinity, I want to drink it all! I beg to know your adventures, your loves, your tragedies, your triumphs and losses. But I don’t merely wish to know of them, I want to be intimate with them! Take them to bed and study their hair while they listen to my lungs drag in contaminated air. I want to argue with them and plan a future with them. I want to discuss our kids’ names, and I want them to break my heart. I want to hate them for how much I love them. I want to profess a eulogy at their funeral and watch them fade into the feedback noise of Time until there’s nothing left but an impression of something that used to be. An abstraction of all the life that wasn’t lived. I want to be them. Do you want to be me? Would you then be fulfilled in your pursuit of life? I suppose it is in poor taste to want to be better than you.

    Like, what does that even mean?