When they die, you don’t call them with their real name. You say things like, ‘move the body’, ‘bury the body’, … ‘the body’, ‘the body’, ‘the body’. No matter how love them, how adorable they are… in the end, they are ‘the body’. It’s the same to you too.
This is in short what we call life, and to the end, what difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or in the holy name of liberty or democracy?
So that’s how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that’s stolen from us – that’s snatched right out of our hands – even if we are left completely changed, with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence. We draw ever nearer to the end of our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness.