I haven’t written or posted for a while. Maybe I lack inspiration or just ran out things to say. I’ll stick with that; sounds better than admitting confidence and meaning are slipping away. A kind person responded to me the other day and reminded me of two things; one, when I started my blog my goal was to try and help one person with one problem. Her second point I realized through its effect on me. The power of a well-timed comment can act as a comma or exclamation point. She showed me that one comment can help slow down or increase momentum down a given corridor of the mind. Thank you.
I am sure you have noticed that I sure do like commas and semi-colons even though I am not sure how to use them correctly. Many of my thoughts and experiences run together and I don’t know where or how to punctuate. I guess I am just reluctant to end something. Who decides when something is a complete thought? Part of the aging process is to witness the passing of periods. Children see periods often, my toy broke, therefore I will never have a fun toy again. The simple act of staying alive makes sentences that once contain our whole world and future appear both forgettable and frightening. They are forgettable because they are just one of the many that make up your book of life. Frightening because of a growing exposure to their finite number.
My mom passed a while back, I remember her saying all her friends were either dead or dying. This stage of life she lamented, is funny because like a child you feel more of an onlooker than a participant. The difference is a child can sense the growth to come and you feel the inevitable decay. When decay becomes your most relevant perspective, you turn backward not forward for meaning. In the turning, the question becomes what is the appropriate reaction. Should I whip my back bloody with the stripes of past mistakes, failures, the road left untaken? On the other hand, should I inflate my own accomplishments, while diminishing those of others? Perhaps, I should become bitter and bemoan my fate, play the victim. I am both sadden and perversely comforted by the fact that even those who played their role with respect and dignity are soon forgotten. Even when remembered, their legacy depends more on the needs of those remembering than the facts of the life being contemplated.
I have nothing against the term “passed” for describing the dead, but neither am I fond of it. I think of death as opening up a book in a completely new genre; its unknown realities we can only guess at. In closing, I find the act of writing requires me to be open, vulnerable and at least look for some periods. No wonder it can be scary.