But People Want Happy Posts

I know it. When people read a blog on WP, they’re looking for happy posts that make them feel good. And I try. I post memes, jokes, stuff that might bring a smile.

But I don’t feel that way. I rarely feel that way. And as the pain in my neck and back from the accident refuses to subside, creating a feedback loop of pain>stress>anxiety>more pain, I feel even worse.

Yesterday I was overwhelmed with this thought: Everyone that you know and love will die. You will watch them die. You will suffer for them and mourn them but there is nothing that you can do but watch as they disappear. And then you will slowly forget them. First you’ll forget their voice. Then their face, the things they wore, good and bad times that you had, everything, it will all disappear like a sandcastle during high tide. All that will be left is a gravestone that people step over to visit other gravestones.

I know this for a fact. I can’t remember much about my grandfather, who died 22 years ago, when I was 18. He’s a mirage, a glimmer in my memory. I can’t remember my mom’s voice. She died 5 years ago. I’m having trouble remembering Valerie’s. She died four years ago. Soon they will vanish as if they never existed.

And the best case scenario is that we die first, so that we don’t have to endure those losses.

Anyway, here’s a funny meme.

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She Smoked Menthols…

She smoked menthols. Newports, I think, but they might have been Newport Lights, or 100s. It’s been almost four years, and these details have faded away.

She liked to wear black, but she had this tan, plaid skirt that she wore a lot. It looked good on her, but everything did. I loved how she did her makeup: dark eye shadow against pale foundation. It made those dark eyes stand out, but even on sleepy mornings, makeup free, long hair a mess, yawning and staggering out of bed in her Pac-Man pajamas that said “Eat Me,” her eyes always stood out. Maybe it was an illusion because I loved her so, but I don’t think it was. She was real, and her love held me together at a time when I was crumbling apart.

Tomorrow is Valerie’s birthday, and she will not be around for it. Val died in January of 2013. She is forever 35. She will not grow old like me. She will not grow old with me. She is permanently young in my memories, getting smaller in my rear view, details fading away.

But I know that she smoked menthols.

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