I am feeling morbid at the moment. Not morbid in a down, dragging at my heels sort of way, rather in a scary, eye-opening, ah, so that’s what this is all about! kind of way.
Every day in the newsroom I read of another soldier, baby or unfortunate, wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time expiry. Another soul poofs into nothingness, leaving a bank account, some clothes and a yearning family behind. Cameras flash, pages are filled and stories, stories, thousands of chinese whispers of varying degrees of ludicrous wrongness trickle and seep through the mass.
It is starting to feel like every news story, every account, tale, yarn, history, missive and poem is irreconcilably forged around the eventual empty space that will one day just be.
The strange thing is that the world keeps on turning and the streets keep on droning and the bees keep on humming and all of those people who have been torn apart and are left behind keep on walking, talking, eating and sleeping – and agreeing to being photographed and interviewed for the day after tomorrow’s bin linings.
It sometimes feels like the living live to take care of the dead.
It happens to thousands – probably millions – of us every day. And we are all replaced. As we, too, need to be taken care of.