I couldn't sleep well last night. My nose felt blocked and I could breathe properly. I attributed it to the fact that I missed applying my prescribed nasal spray that morning. When he wrote the prescription, the doctor warned me seriously - that I will have to apply it every day, for a whole month; that I mustn't skip, nor stop, even if I thought I felt better. But that was the morning of the funeral. It was not that I purposely forgot about my nasal spray. It was the morning of the funeral.
Being the expected doesn't make it easier to accept, and definitely doesn't make it alright to be. In the end, it's just words. Words uttered because of their propriety at the time, words said because someone needed to speak, words said because someone was required to speak. They mostly became white noise. Already being acquainted with the Buddhism teaching of the impermanence of life and everything material in life, one would imagine, perhaps even expect in practice, the relative ease of letting go. It suffices to say that it wouldn't be without effort to convince oneself that it doesn't matter. Nothing is permanent. I know that. I think about it a lot. I think about once reading about why William Saroyan begun writing. He said that if he wrote something, that thing in itself would be itself, and would probably be itself forever, or "for what passes as forever". It would be a piece of him that would be, long after he himself were gone. Words. I would agree that, as paintings, sculptures, musical pieces - they are as permanent as livings things will never be. Even more so as the means and ease of duplication and dissemination are as they are now. Ever been told at work to always send wholesome words of gratitude and praise through emails, and harsh ones of reprimand or complaint through phone calls? In the end, we are all remembered, if we would indeed be remembered, by the words we have written. I do suppose so. I do not know why it matters at all - or perhaps it doesn't. Perhaps it is arrogant, self-serving ego, to want to be remembered. Or perhaps the fear of being forgotten is one as real as the fear of heights. Perhaps it is the desire to want to always remember a loved one gone, which instilled a fear of the unreliability of the human memory, leading to the presumption that those gone would fear they would be forgotten. Perhaps most are, in fact, simply indifferent. As of this point the reader may be wondering where I am heading with this post. Nowhere. The mind is overwhelmed and tired. I started writing this piece without ever meaning it to be understood. Recent predicaments had put me in such a mood.
I remembered to apply my nasal spray this morning. Perhaps I will be able to rest better tonight.