Recently I read some fiction in which a terribly abused character regarded death as a dark, quiet room. She doesn't die during the story, and in fact her life turns around in a huge way shortly after that. The imagery of death as she viewed it was what stayed with me. In a bright, loud world where life is perpetually coming at you (and constantly subjecting you to some form of abuse) death as a dark, quiet room seems quite appealing. Being done with all these exhausting people seems very peaceful. All the pain stops. You're finally alone (and I do understand that longing more than I realized I would.) As a writer I've thought of death in a zillion ways, probably, but I keep coming back to crossing a finish line. The end of a life is that kind of end -- we're finished with this whole beautiful, disastrous mess of existence. I don't want to debate what happens after death, because we'll never know until after we die, assuming consciousness survives. Al...
It seems like the latest hurricane will slide by us without much fuss, but folks in the Big Bend and nothern Gulf aren't going to be so lucky. Please do visit the National Hurricane Center for the most accurate information on Hurricane Isaias, and if you're in the strike zone, please get ready and take care.