An Annual Afterthought

If I were to place a percentage of good versus the bad in the span of a year, I would have to say that the year is 90% good and 10% bad. The bad, as always, seems worse than it is.

With regards to that 10% bad, it can be further broken down to 7% during the holiday season (that being November to December) and the other 3% being this past week. Most interestingly is that it is this past week that tends upsets me more than the other 7%.

You see, this past weekend, was my birthday. I received one card from my family. I got birthday texts, but two of those felt like last minute “oh right, it is your birthday.”

It is how it has been for the past several years. At this time of year, I feel like an afterthought.

Sure, I can say that this year it was because of my grandmother’s death. However, every year, it is not one thing it is another. It is always something.

It hurts. I admit it does hurt.

Also, it is alright. I am okay with it. It is only one day. Sure, it is my birthday, but I have already had 41 birthdays prior to this one. I will have many more.

I am not really convincing, am I?

Advertisements

Reflections on a discarded rag doll someone loved.

Warning: Graphic Material contained within.

Looking at pictures of bodies laying in their final death pose never quite prepare you for when you see it in real life. It is a naive idea to believe that if you look at enough images, you can desensitize yourself. That does not actually happen. For me, at least, it did not. I’m a little worse for wear after my first true dead body.

The worse part of seeing the body of the dead motorcyclist this morning is his final repose, like a rag doll tossed out of a window. His legs twisted in an unnatural manner, behind him, partly because his back was also twisted in a similar manner, as were his arms. At first, I thought I was looking at a large lump of something looking similar to a large carpet, or a cow or horse (yes something like those). But it was no cow, or horse or carpet. It was a body – a tangled, rumpled, twisted mass that until just before I got there was a living person.

He was dead, I knew it. There was no way he would have survived.

His bike was scattered across the lanes immediately in front of him for an additional 100 feet. Some motorists stopped their mornings to pull over, to help, while the rest of us drove by, not sure we, indeed saw, what we saw.

As I drove past, I looked for another car along the side of the road, maybe there was damage? All I saw was one car stopped in front, another in back, and one reversing with fervor along the right shoulder. People were stopping to help. I wanted to stop to help. I thought I should stop to help. Instead, I continued to drive and I started crying. I saw a man who lost his life and I had to cry for him.

Over the past three years, I have noticed, on countless occasions, the lapse of judgment people have when they are driving or riding their motorcycles. Have people forgotten that you are driving a machine that weighs a massive amount? Have you forgotten that when you get behind the wheel (or handlebars) that you are now responsible for the lives around you as well as yours? When did lapse in judgment become the norm?

I ask my friends,who ride motorcycles, please be safe, and ask yourself if it is important to get to your destination sooner? Getting to where you are going is not a race. To my friends who drive every day, please pay attention to the motorcyclists (and other vehicles) around you, use those mirrors, turn on your blinker, and look over your shoulder.

All it takes is one subliminal suggestion

That’s all it takes to plant the seed. Once the seed is planted, the suggestion will grow, branching up and outwards spreading its corruption over everything it comes in contact with until one day, the suggestion matures into an idea. After that, it’s too late. No matter how much you might try to get rid of the idea, it is there to stay, corrupting and covering the affected eyes with blinders. Sadly, the affected realize they have lived a life with blinders when it is too late. The new seeds of suggestion are sowed, and it starts all over again.

And, defenseless, there is nothing I can do. There is no point. My voice cannot be heard. The idea silenced it long ago.