These words are never far from my mind. And while it is unavoidable (necessary, even, should we believe in some greater cosmic order), that is it possible, that we may have some say in the matter, provides me with more comfort than God ever did.
These words are particularly resonant in this city, where life and death so freely and frequently mingle. Every street is full of broken, burnt, and decaying houses, pressed between their still-functioning contemporaries. Why did this house fall to disrepair while its neighbour continued on to house further generations of families, future decades of laughter and fights? Why was this door boarded up while its fellow remains, to greet guests, to welcome home, to be slammed in rage and sadness?
One cannot help but be reminded of ghost towns, where the situation was
so bad people left without selling their homes, without their
possessions, just their families and their lives; a midnight flight from
a life whose abuses could no longer be tolerated.
We, the house proud, would never understand.
It is possible to die, yes. It is possible to run, to rot, to hide, to go up in a blaze and be reduced to dust and ash, or to slowly fall apart until all that is left are rubble and the hint of a memory.
And it is possible to live.
----------
Soundtrack: "Now You Know" - Arca
"It is possible to die" from "The Hours" - Michael Cunningham
Photo of Lisbon from Castelo de São Jorge, where this was written (August 7 2015).
We, the house proud, would never understand.
It is possible to die, yes. It is possible to run, to rot, to hide, to go up in a blaze and be reduced to dust and ash, or to slowly fall apart until all that is left are rubble and the hint of a memory.
And it is possible to live.
----------
Soundtrack: "Now You Know" - Arca
"It is possible to die" from "The Hours" - Michael Cunningham
Photo of Lisbon from Castelo de São Jorge, where this was written (August 7 2015).
