Death is My Lover

Death is my lover. He wants me deeply, intensely. He loves the way I move, the way I gesture when I speak, the way I tilt my head. He can't wait to get me alone.

He comes to me at night. He whispers love words in my ear and my mind goes swirling away into dark emptiness, a pale mist dissipating in the boundless unending abyss.

Death touches me as I lie in bed, so tenderly and so gently that I can hardly feel it. But my body turns to hard dry clay and bit-by-bit in flakes and shards I crumble away.

He sits beside me in the garden. The sun is black, the roses withered, the insects tiny buzzing skeletons. Eternity weighs upon me then. It is so heavy I can't move, so loud I cannot hear.

My husband doesn't know I have another lover, one who is faithful and infinitely patient. Death waits for the day that I love him back, for the day when, in his arms, I forget all the other things I've loved.

I want to kill myself sometimes

Sometimes I just end it all, because I don't think there are any answers to life's difficult questions.

Why are we here? Why is there death? Why does life hurt so much? I'd rather die now than wait for the incredible pain that will happen when my husband passes away. It's coming. It's coming. I'll sit by his grave one day and I'll weep.

Unless I make him sit by mine.

And honestly, I would never do that, not on purpose. (She laughs at the irony.) So I'll just sit here, enjoying the sunshine, waiting, and watching, and knowing that heartbreak is on its way.

He went to Paris lookin' for answers
To questions that bothered him so
He was impressive, young and aggressive
Savin' the world on his own

But the warm summer breezes
The French wines and cheeses
Put his ambition at bay
The summers and winters
Scattered like splinters
And four or five years slipped away

Then he went to England, played the piano
And married an actress named Kim
They had a fine life, she was a good wife
And bore him a young son named Jim

And all of the answers and all of the questions
Locked in his attic one day
'Cause he liked the quiet clean country livin'
And twenty more years slipped away

Well the war took his baby, the bombs killed his lady
And left him with only one eye
His body was battered, his whole world was shattered
And all he could do was just cry

While the tears were a-fallin' he was recallin'
Answers he never found
So he hopped on a freighter, skidded the ocean
And left England without a sound

Now he lives in the islands, fishes the pilin's
And drinks his Green Label each day
Writing his memoirs, losin' his hearin'
But he don't care what most people say

Through eighty-six years of perpetual motion
If he likes you he'll smile and he'll say
'Jimmy, some of it's magic, some of it's tragic
But I had a good life all the way'

And he went to Paris lookin' for answers
To questions that bothered him so.
by Jimmy Buffet

Is Dumbledore Alive?

Probably not. The phoenix sang a song of mourning, remember, and Dumbledore's picture now hangs in his own office.

Hard Edges

I spent a bit of time with my cousin's wife. She's pretty, kinda, and blonde, and isn't afraid to speak her mind. She has hard edges, though, and being with her made me more aware of the kind of person I want to be. I want to have soft edges and a firm core. I want to be a sweet, gentle person who won't be swayed from what I think is right or from the path that I have chosen.