So, I’m back on British soil after three weeks of meandering around Europe with nothing but a backpack and a smile on my face.
I’m glad to be back, but the combination of the rain; the flat being a mess of paperwork mixed in with laundry; and, most importantly, being told a relative has got terminal cancer has left me feeling pretty, er, mortal after a summer I’d been wishing for since I was a teenager. Feels like that kind of good stuff comes with a bit of a karmic price tag or something.
Yep, I know, that’s stupid and irrational (not to mention incredibly self-centred; I am completely fine after all). No, I’m not wallowing in a pit of woe or anything, but I am thinking a lot about death. How it changes living beings into objects and then matter. How impersonal that biological process is, but how we as humans imbue it with such a weight of emotion and fear. How different an emotional process it is when you know it’s coming as opposed to it being sudden and violent. It’s such a Big Deal when you’re mortal, and yet in an essentially protestant-based society we tend to hide it away behind closed doors, put on a brave face and half-pretend it isn’t happening. It’s almost embarrassing to us.
I say us, maybe I mean me. Hm.