Skip to main content

Mortality and Morality.

Time feels so much slower as trucks and buses skim past my face; the driving here is like an obstacle course.

Time feels slower as I smile and laugh about how family insults family and how it's all a joke, but sometimes I wonder if the other side knows it is.

A joke at the expense of a dying man who I promised I would visit until his death. Spend my vacation on him until death visits him.

It might sound like a miserable vacation, but it's a summer holiday in Bali for the few seconds he smiles at one of the thousands of stories I tell him.

Death is natural, but so is life, and pain exists in both. How can pain be so natural yet so superficial?

Time feels slower as I visit expensive cafes and drink bubble tea, slowly ordering something different, accepting the change that is natural.

But death still seems far away, something that would never visit any of my loved ones.

Yet as I grow older, it seems more possible. Like I once thought aging would never reach me. But now anything beyond twenty-five sounds old.

Fun carries on beyond being young.

My rational mind knows everything, but at the same time, it knows that I can't know everything.

Rationality isn't a factor when you're crying on the pillow every night; it isn't when you reconsider every aspect of your life, wondering if it was all a lie.

A man with black hair but a white beard, his mother's genes, he says, once told me that depression was all in people's heads, or at least that's what his parents told him.

I wonder how many people haven't questioned some things because of their age or position, and how that formed cultures that keep hurting.

And if we question it to the people who never did, they never seem to have an answer because it never mattered in the first place.

Interfering in another's family business is wrong, or at least something that's left of it.

If we go after it, the people who don't take care of it get angry but still don't do what they are told to.

Then again, the old man was cruel too. And at this time, people talk like he doesn't exist.

He is preparing to die, scared and alone, but this man is only reaping what he sowed.

My heart still clenches, and my tears still flow; an eye for an eye would leave everyone blind.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...

Loss.

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.

The Old Vase.

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us.  Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by. The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds.  Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves?  We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once.  I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created.  Maybe then, t...