Before This Heart Shit, I would’ve insisted I didn’t want one. A long life, that is. Not a short one either, by any means, but a long one sounds like a pain. Sounds like pain, full stop. My gramma, outliving everyone, even watching her own child fade and die before her. Shorter than that, longer than my Mom’s life. Somewhere in-between, with limited suffering.
Now that death knocks against the beat of my heart, making it go wonky, I think we’ve accepted death far too easily, as a species. What makes death such a poetic thing, anyway? Do we really believe life goes on, after? Do we really believe, in our heart of faulty hearts, such a thing exists outside the whirring electric bursts within our skulls, making up everything we see and experience? Is not the simple miracle of consciousness enough? Why do we gotta complicate it with ephemeral bs meant to make people like my Gramma feel better?
Why is death inevitable?
We work to cure it, we do. Yet still, there exists this idea that it shouldn’t be defeated outright. This notion that it’s part of our existence.
I blame capitalism.
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