I have learned much in twenty four hours of observing loss: firstly, adults fear death like children fear sleep. It is a fear of missing out, of losing sense of light and space and of an ever-feared end; secondly, fifteen is as good a time as any to begin your sex life; thirdly, people speak to corpses and corpses speak to people constantly. The only difference being the corpse is but a being aware of its ends; fourthly, sunrises are worth anything and butterflies are dead people and everything holds symbolism to everything you wish to find out if only you had time to interpret them; fifthly, there is no god, no religion, but i'm sure there's a divinity to deathly occurrences; sixthly, the human form is a test run to see where one deserves a place in nature or another lifetime; seventhly, youth is a trick of the mind until the skin sags, and with it fails mind, fails heart, but to love wholeheartedly you must give up all this willingly; eigthly, everyone is dead and the parish ideology is a weakening one, and with it falls church and hushed riches and sins of the aforementioned godly vocation; ninthly, the only reason death and religion are connected are because bibles provide eloquent answers to tongue-drying questions of transience and fears of being left behind, forgotten, without identity built up over a forgettable lifetime; tenthly, it is a small world, one where bushes rustle with the happy limbs and thirsty friends, where an element of hiding is necessary to build empires on, as have i with postboxes and bus stations sworn to secrecy, where archipelagos rumble together, as i know that when i bury myself under six feet of anxieties you feel it in the fields round your house, and where i am such a small world within your several infinities, and absolutely partial to your upper hands when i fall off the edge, still in adoration of you as you pick up speed on the run, the cryptic disappearence.
