Hurt. (Death and longing)

My grand-father died a fortnight ago and it’s hit me hard.

I can’t believe that the silver-haired man in the tatty oilskins and muddy boots with his twine around his waist isn’t here anymore. I can’t believe that the man with the wry smile and the sly wink has gone. I can’t believe that the man that tickled my feet to wake me up, the man who let me drive a car for the first time, crashing into a tractor, is buried in the cemetery of my childhood chapel.

It’s completely bizarre.

Every Sunday, we’d go to my grand-parents for a chin wag and to warm up by the fire. He was always there, in his chair, with his large reading glasses magnifying his blue eyes.

It wasn’t a great shock to hear of his death; he’d been ill for a few months and had been hospitalised, and had only just come home. He had carers looking after him and was bed-bound. He’d also suffered from Alzheimer’s disease for a year or two.

But, I didn’t get to say goodbye. I was going to stay with him for the night on the Friday. He died on the Thursday.

This haunted me for a while.

My heart feels like it has been throttled and emptied of all blood. I find myself vacant of any feeling or emotion often. And then I remember, and I seek for comfort. I seek a warm shoulder to lie my head on, strong arms to hide me from pain.

I seek him, the Artist.

Around a month ago, I told him that I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t face constantly worrying over what he did or didn’t do, what he said or didn’t say and whether I would hear from him during the week to come. I hated not ever knowing where I stood. It was tearing me apart and I couldn’t concentrate for days following our meetings.

I told him when I was about to leave one night and when I got up, he told me to sit back down. He was upset. I was upset.

“Can’t we just stay as we are?”

No, we can’t. It’s too complicated. I’m afraid that if I carry on, I won’t be able to leave. It’s better to do it now.

We hugged for a while and it was lovely.

The thing is, we left it with my pissed off shout at him as he said that I was being over-dramatic.

And now I miss him.

I hurt even more, knowing that he’s gone. He was never there in the first place, for goodness’ sake. But it doesn’t stop me.

I seek him.

I grieve for my grand-father, and I seek the man I wanted to be mine.


Death and all his Friends…

It’s official, I’m not human.

A girl in my year died today; she was terminally ill. Curlygirl sent me the text. I was extremely shocked but after about ten minutes I felt nothing. NOTHING. No sadness, nothing. Is it because I never knew her, never talked to her, or just because of my philosophies surrounding death? I don’t know. But now I feel really guilty.

See, I believe when you die, you live on. Whether through your daughter, your sister’s son or your great-niece, your soul gets transferred. You are given another chance at life without even knowing it. Your new persona might be totally different, but there’s an element of the old you in there, hiding. You never know, and you’ll never find out. I quite like that idea.

I’m actually quite fascinated and intrigued with death. It must be impossible to just go, surely? I love hearing people’s theories about the afterlife. I believe in ghosts too.

The afterlife and its theories has actually inspired me to start to write a short novel, called ‘As Birds Fly’. It follows Sophia, a recently dead girl, living her life in the Other World; as a bird. With the added implication of her boyfriend, Shaun, who was a ghost after he died years before but that entered the Afterlife when she killed herself. I started writing it last Summer – only reached chapter 10 though!

I can’t believe that I haven’t felt a thing today; I cried at Merlin, for goodness’ sake! I really am immortal.