His funeral is at 3:00. What do I do?
I do not want to go, but I feel as if I should go, merely because I know that people will be questioning me on Monday as to why I didn't, and I will feel as if I need to lie so people do not think badly of me.
It may be somewhat hypocritical to attend - we barely talked, we exchanged nicities and annoyances, I have grieved for him and accepted, he is dead, yes, but it is an eventuality...
It was a terrible way to die - drowning - but could I sit there and hear strangers emulate his qualities that I never knew? Hear them speak of his compassion, his humor, things that I saw fleetingly or that irritated me while he lived?
I knew him and he is dead - I saw him and he is dead - I spoke to him and he is dead - am I to be accused that I have no compassion, no respect, simply because I do not wish to hear them speak of a person that I did not intimately know?
I have thought of the things we did together, the things he's said - how he loved my voice, low, intelligent, authoriatative - how he threw staples in my hair and laughed maniacally at my chagrin, how I should have been kinder to him, how he should have been kinder to me.
I do not need to go to a funeral for myself, to cry (I have), to validate my memories of him, to see everyone grieve, to feel guilt at his no longer being here. He died, I lived, there is no reason to this, no explanation, he was unlucky, it is unfair.
He had a passion for life, for love, that I respected. He had many other qualities that I did not.
I am blushing - in shame, maybe, at my truthfulness, in the excitement that I am being so raw and honest, I don't know really why - I could not sit there blindly and watch others mourn and pretend. My heart is pounding sickly.
I knew him and he will become dust. It would be terrible to go and sit with those that loved him far more than I, to see them put handkerchiefs to their faces, to express my sympathy at their loss, to twist my face into a visage that looked morose and which professed my condolences. I would sit there in a black dress and a shawl and dark shoes and think of the pointlessness of life and farcity of religion, cynical and nihilistic - Ivan Karamazov to the last - and this, I think, would not be an honor but a detriment to him.
I do not want to go, but I feel as if I should go, merely because I know that people will be questioning me on Monday as to why I didn't, and I will feel as if I need to lie so people do not think badly of me.
It may be somewhat hypocritical to attend - we barely talked, we exchanged nicities and annoyances, I have grieved for him and accepted, he is dead, yes, but it is an eventuality...
It was a terrible way to die - drowning - but could I sit there and hear strangers emulate his qualities that I never knew? Hear them speak of his compassion, his humor, things that I saw fleetingly or that irritated me while he lived?
I knew him and he is dead - I saw him and he is dead - I spoke to him and he is dead - am I to be accused that I have no compassion, no respect, simply because I do not wish to hear them speak of a person that I did not intimately know?
I have thought of the things we did together, the things he's said - how he loved my voice, low, intelligent, authoriatative - how he threw staples in my hair and laughed maniacally at my chagrin, how I should have been kinder to him, how he should have been kinder to me.
I do not need to go to a funeral for myself, to cry (I have), to validate my memories of him, to see everyone grieve, to feel guilt at his no longer being here. He died, I lived, there is no reason to this, no explanation, he was unlucky, it is unfair.
He had a passion for life, for love, that I respected. He had many other qualities that I did not.
I am blushing - in shame, maybe, at my truthfulness, in the excitement that I am being so raw and honest, I don't know really why - I could not sit there blindly and watch others mourn and pretend. My heart is pounding sickly.
I knew him and he will become dust. It would be terrible to go and sit with those that loved him far more than I, to see them put handkerchiefs to their faces, to express my sympathy at their loss, to twist my face into a visage that looked morose and which professed my condolences. I would sit there in a black dress and a shawl and dark shoes and think of the pointlessness of life and farcity of religion, cynical and nihilistic - Ivan Karamazov to the last - and this, I think, would not be an honor but a detriment to him.
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