I just finished watching the Royal Tenenbaums and the deaths from my own world crept out from wherever suppressed memories go to hide. I watched the characters standing in the rain, and pictured myself standing there. The damn earth, and the raindrops tapping away at umbrellas. Rain has accompanied both of the most important funerals in my life. My grandfather died as he was bled dry by cigarettes. There is nothing refined about having a cancerous growth rupture an artery while those that love you most scramble to make sense of it all. Blood doesn’t flow out so nice and smooth like the nice hit of a cigarette. If your life is so stressful you need cigarettes as a coping mechanism, rethink your life for fucks sake. There is nothing cool about smoking. There is nothing cool about smelling like shit.
My aunt died silently of cancer as well. It is a harsh ugly thing to see someone so young, erased by cancer. At some point in time were people affected by every death so severely and genuinely?
A man died somewhere in Afghanistan. I am certain someone out there is dying silently in their sleep as i write this. But at the end it does not keep me up at night. I do not toss and turn at the thought of innocent kids being deployed to the far reaches of the American Empire. Even Kim Jonj-Il and his fortress of bigotry does not cause me to wake in the middle of the night. But why? I find it a little disturbing that I remain so removed to these terrible things.