Preludes and Post Scripts

"I am moved by fancies that are curled 

Around these images, and cling:  

The notion of some infinitely gentle 

Infinitely suffering thing." 

-T.S. Eliot, Preludes

I regularly find myself remembering snippets of poetry that I had memorized due to my high school pastime, Forensics (also known as Speech Team). If you've read back to old entries I talk of my love of T.S. Eliot often, specifically The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which to me, sums up the tone of loneliness absolutely.

People say that those who surround themselves with people the most are typically the loneliest. They're trying to fill that void. I feel as if I am that way. It's easy to get lost in others as an escape from ourselves. I've been trying to get away from doing this — but instead of feeling like I know myself better, I find that it's daunting to realize I may not know myself as well as I assumed. It's strange to spend all day every day being myself without thinking about it, and then with others I am someone else, a hologram. I am there, but not present.

To be in the latter half of my 20s and finding these findings seems so old. I know, I know, "You're not old!" But I'm not young, either. I'm not like a spritely young graduate. I'm not a bourgeoning teenager. I'm not a child. I'm not a young adult. I'm not an old adult.

We call people in their twenties, 20-somethings. We can't even come up with a real name for it. I'm a 20-something. What that something is, no idea.

I am a person chasing after it — what is "it?" There is no label. I could say I'm chasing after a career in the arts. I'm chasing after a dream to be a creator. I could say—. I could say it all — but what is it that we want in the end? When people die are they shouting from their insides, "I wish I had written just one more play!" "I wish I had just finished putting the shutters on the house I wanted to flip." "I wish this," and "I wanted that."

Doubtful that it is things or a to-do list accomplished. A bucket list, sure, yes, we want to do things, but to what end, who for or who with?

What turned out to be the preview to when my grandpa Harry died, when he thought it was the moment to go, that is, his 10 children and numerous grandchildren, his wife, were all surrounding him. Father Trout was there to anoint him with last rights. He asked my grandma Celeste to sing Danny Boy for him. It was very climactic, truthfully told. And we kept waiting for him to close his eyes the last time, breathe his last breath, say one last thing. But it didn't happen that way. The doctor came in after what seemed like only a few minutes, but was in actuality much longer, and said Harry was not yet going anywhere.

It was the strangest thing. We all had collectively decided this was the time, and then it wasn't. But, I got to see what my grandpa Harry wanted to be like in his last moments. He was lucid until the very end. And in some ways, he got to be there for his last moments twice, instead of just wasting away sedated. That seemed like such a gift to me.

Surrounded by the people who make us who we are — I suppose that's what I want.

"Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death 

Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death

Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death 

Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death 

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind, 

A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog 

By this grace dissolved in a place" 

-T.S. Eliot, Marina