Musing About Death After Life...(Rep.)

Walking out the front door of a house she called space she found a comfortable bench, in a bog by a set of tall chained swings and sweeping slides, filled with children laughing; and, there she sat down to rest, muse, ensconce in what memories she had of her life still worth living, the images and reflections in time- that elicit tears of happiness. And with both legs stretched out, her arms criss-cross folded, her eyes lifted skyward, seeking out the gray billows of clouds she could image as ethereal silhouettes of the many who had left her years and years ago; as a child, as a wife, as a woman and best friend, yet, the images were faded like book shelves paved with dust, from an old book warehouse, where no one goes anymore, as its worth is insignificant and because so, as she sat alone she considered herself the same. She'd learned to live her later years by her own convoluted instincts, from shades of apprehension to a veil of reclusiveness, to shelter her egg-shell fears, from the wounds, nails and glass that we all must walk across, living out mortality- as we know it, and cannot ever change it. And she took all this inside her Mind and countered it by measuring her worth from her past and unforeseen future; yet, with the same skewed yard-stick she'd been measuring with for years. In the morning they found her slumped on the tall set of swings, hanging by its chain from the shortest of the swings. Depression, all too often, the most silent of voluntary death, because the sufferers rarely speak about the reasons why they feel insignificant and ready to die, and thus in many cases do; despite symptoms that never lie; Yet the truth is that we want to believe that the one(s) we live for are incapable of such thoughts, and require professional help, which if you think about that notion it should register Waterford clear that this notion is a sickness in itself! FjR-MMXV