No, I'm not turning emo or goth or any other stereotype that is associated with death. It is simply a theme that I've been consistently thinking about since my father died.
Childishly, a constant statement that swirls in my thoughts is "I don't understand" and the ever so popular question of "why did he have to die?". Plagued by naive thoughts that if I wish it hard enough his death would be a distant nightmare.
Selfishly, I see old people on buses or on the streets and wonder why it wasn't them that had died in my fathers place. How do they merit more life? Or is it just the luck of the draw?
Foolishly, I have moments of pure insanity where, yea, necromancy is totally acceptable and would surely work if I did it. Then of course comes the thought of "wow, I'm completely insane".
Stereotypically, Yes, there are moments when I'm by myself and a single fragment of a memory makes me bawl until my eyes feel raw.. and Yes, sometimes when I have drank to much alcohol I sobbingly confess all the times I could've been a better daughter in search of some sort of beyond the grave atonement.
Childishly, Selfishly, Foolishly and Stereotypically.. I miss him.
