For her, it began much as it'll for many: a curiously constant itch in the rear of the head, a distress on the left side, a lump fingered in the shower. It became impossible to dismiss as temporary anymore. Then came the trip to the physician, the motivating words from loved ones. Once tears ended with hugs and breakdowns were eased, It still– despite all of the small signs and changes – continued to surprise all of us. In our minds, it was an appalling clerical blunder; an error from evil. Some bow at the same time. A few swear to fight what science today insists can never be vanquished; most veer painfully from hope to despair. But not Annabelle, she had plans. - The Coin Compass by Chazzy Patel
The dying have grand things and ideas to share with all of us when said in the simplest straightforward vocabulary. Their tone becomes like those of prophets; they have gone ahead on the timeline to tell us the truths we don’t possess; the bravery to face ourselves right now. Men and women, none of whom have more than a few weeks or days left to live, talk together with the clarity, the dearth of pretension, the absolute sincerity of the damned.
The dying are the great appreciators of this world: they savor the minutes the sun playfully hangs, the laughter of a child, and another deep breath. They know what spoilt ingrates we all are. They were like us of course. They understand they wasted decades and from their beds, they make an effort to tell us of their follies, warn us of our own, and give us as much love as possible.
It's the time for confessions and the entries of weakness. This is not any occasion for pride. It's possible to admit all the many things that went wrong, cowardice the evasions, animosity, and betrayals that are the concealed mortar of every life.
The things the perishing cherish most have no link with what is deemed essential by the competitive world. Youth is consistently mentioned. When there were just nightmares that could be comforted away by a loving hand; a time when death had no existence yet. Now the nightmares have colonized. This is worse than any ghost or zombie a youthful imagination might have dreamt up. The coin flips.
We may want to weep for them and needless to say, as it should be for us. Death refashions aspiration and encourages us to attach new value to things we barely would have thought of to for of any sort.
We'll leave hardly any hints ourselves with our own existence. For being thus, our monuments are small compared to time, but all the more actual and heartbreaking. We can count ourselves fortunate for living on in the hearts of a few for half a decade or so.
Every age ought to be in search of effective ways to keep death in your mind. Once we'd look at skulls or martyrs, hourglasses or withered blossoms. The task of art will be to give us access to encounters it is otherwise difficult to get hold of and to leave their moral vivid to our imaginations that are distracted by pain. The images are desperately gloomy but not always depressing. As opposed to attempting to beat us with all the reminiscence of death, they stand on the side of living; giving us new conviction to make sure the coming days aren't squandered like so many others have been before us.
It no longer matters how much we squabbled over and what our stresses may now be about. With death in mind, we are set free from things that shouldn’t constrain us in the first place: our fears, incorrect preoccupations, and values that were bogus.
Sadly, we’re likely to forget the wisdom within weeks or months. We’ll be back to overlooking the sun and the appeal of the wind, often losing important outlook.
These are the sort of ungrateful thoughts we all have – which is why we continuously want the resources of art to renew our connection with the painful but deeply necessary truths.
I still miss you.