“The meaning of life is that it stops.”
― Franz Kafka
In the midst of life we are in death, indeed. I just wrote a tongue-in-cheek ramble about the devil…and learned, just this morn, of a friend’s accident. A fatal one.
This news is raw yet and a sticky wet clog in my thoughts, and yet I keep breathing, I drink coffee, I listen to the dryer spin clothes. My brother has lost a friend dear to his heart. A family has lost a son, children have lost their father. And there are thunderstorms today and perhaps it will rain.
There is no reason for what happened. It just happened. I cannot ascribe something supernatural to that ending or affix some jumble of ancient words meant to smooth over the raw screaming nerves of loss. Why? does no seem adequate. He is dead now when yesterday he was alive.
