Three days. Three funerals.
This was written the night before last. It’s got nothing to do with art but it’s got everything to do with who I am. Read it or click the little white cross at the top right corner of this window.
Sometimes, when I spend a lot of time near concrete, I tend to forget about real things that I can’t control. Then I attend 3 funerals in 3 days and talk about god and death and life and destiny. I don’t think I believe in most of it. I don’t think I disbelieve in it either. But it brings me a lot of relief… exactly the kind of relief these words are concocted to bring. I say it aloud more for my own sanity than the grieved ones.
Day before yesterday I sat in a room full of strangers, who were there for a 33 year old boy who passed away in his sleep. Every time I looked at his body a shudder went down my entire body. He’s just a little bit older than me. Just a little bit healthier. Just a little bit more ok. But just a little bit less alive. He’s dead. Fin.
Today, on Day 3, I held my friend close while we drove through mad Lahore traffic, so that we could quickly get her home to where her father had passed away. Just like that. Sitting on the sofa, his heart shut down.
These are the things that make us. There is nothing more definite than life or death. Everything else is so trivial. Yet we consume our lives with our own little nuisances. We think we are important. We think we are loved. Or hated. Or beautiful. Or fat. Or underpaid.
We become consumed with our own self-obsessions.
But I think we are just little blots. And someone somewhere sits and laughs at us.