I’ve read a beautiful article about death a few moments ago.
Not all articles about death are beautiful
Mirroring the deaths themselves, I would assume.
Perhaps no death can be called beautiful, at least in Western societies.
Or perhaps it can but the enormity of the grief that comes with it – sometimes even before it takes place – buries it so deep that it is never acknowledged.
I am writing about death because that article was about the only beauty I have witnessed all week.
And I didn’t want to write about ugly things.
I mean, it’s carnival weekend and the local interpretation of it is sufficient to saturate that part of my tolerance.
So I guess this is both my carnival and anniversary post ; I may no longer remember the exact date but given my posting frequency I’d wager that the statement isn’t a long stretch.