A self-inflicted torture, I am often plagued by the thought of dying. I have been very familiar with the concept from a very young age. Having drowned when I was five, I have already died once. This has not seemed to alter the thought of dying into something less terrifying. I dont remember so much at that age but I do remember parts of drowning. The feeling of swallowing the sea, the bubbles failing in front of me rising to the surface for air. The momentary abyss that followed until I was reanimated, regurgitating pool water as my first act of my new life. I have never understood how I can remember nothing but for a moment I experienced it. Another time I was faced with death was when I was a little older. I was living in Brunswick, Maine and would often frequent a pond that was a bit of a trek from my home. I loved to walk in the pond, feeling the viscous water laden with mire. I often found myself lost in the life that inhabited the water, watching knee-deep from above. One day I happened upon something wonderful. A ball of goo, life and uncertainty, I discovered a form unknown to me which was revealed to be a nest of frog eggs later that day. Selfishly I returned the next day with the intent on bringing the nest closer to me. I wanted to observe the development of their lives with only my own ease and awe in mind. I gathered one of the sacks into a large bucket, minuscule in comparison to what would be their former home. In an attempt to imitate its surroundings I gathered foliage from the area, a cruel joke in retrospect. I took them home with me that day, the walk more difficult physically, the bucket heavy with life. And yet I did not mind as I admired their splendor on the way. The following weeks consisted of my obsession with the eggs that soon turned into tadpoles. Foolishly I tried to name each one, but their movement and my lack of perception did not allow for such a thing. Although I could not distinguish them as individuals I truly felt as if I loved each one. I would go to sleep thinking about them and wake up to be with them. When they started to grow legs I felt what I can only describe as unfounded pride mixed with a slight fear. Eventually I knew they would need to leave their current containment. I could not have imagined, at the time, how they would come to leave. One morning I woke up to be with them, only to find the bucket missing. Confused, I searched desperately for them. I asked my father where they were, to which he responded that he had kicked the bucket over claiming that they were already dead. He must have said more but I became disoriented by anger, fear and heartache. I could not get the speculative image of my father, ending their lives with a kick of a foot. For many nights I weeped in pain, feeling responsible for their deaths. If I had left them in the pond, they would have certainly been better off. Still to this day I would lay awake in bed, terrified by the thought that life as I knew it could end without warning. I let it alter my perception of the world which has led to parts of my life dying, being too afraid to get attached to anything that could leave me. I might write more on this if anyone is interested but I have lost track of any semblance of a finishing thought. So yea, watch the video. Its disturbingly comforting.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Jul 2014 17:31:19 +0000
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