I find myself thinking of a friend who died last October. It’s almost a year and yet I can see everything like it was yesterday. People’s clothes, the stupid music her phony parents picked. Mostly I remember my friends. But what a solemn occasion to see someone in the past ten years.

I have an obsidian rock pendent that was hers. It’s blessed and everything and I think I might use it to talk to her if I can stop being scared of trying.

We had a séance a few days after she passed. It wasn’t exactly how I planned but what ever is?

 Every few years I seem to switch my stance on death. For some time I’ll think it doesn’t bother me. I’m not important. I’m not scared of it.

Then I’ll start to think about how I’d miss my husband and I get really sad and scared to die.

But sometimes it happens like Mallory, in an accident and you didn’t even get a chance to know anything. To know what happened to you. To say goodbye to people. That kind of thing leaves me split. I can’t live everyday thinking I’ll die.

What is life then? (existentialism is my catnip)

Is it worth being scared to die?

I remember a boy in high school once told me he was ready to die because he’d done everything he thought was worthwhile. That included sex and drugs I think…I hope he’s still alive. That sounds so ridiculously stupid just typing it out. Sex and drugs.

The world is such a fucking mess I think a lot of people from my generation just expect to die with the end of the planet. That sounds crazy but it’s true. The future is fucking bleak. So again what is life? Just existence? All the permanent bumps and scars? Are you immortal if you have children?

As the heat attacks my office window and permeates the room, doing battle with the air conditioner, I’m sleepy…and hungry. How small I am in this doomed world. Spooky

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