Reflections
Nov. 2nd, 2005 10:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mabfanThanks to all of you who responded to my last post.
It's an odd feeling to go through a regular day at work, while having the memory of fifteen years ago follow me around.
When I lost my father, it was like the world had stopped. It did stop, for him, but it also stopped briefly for my family. And when something like this happens, you look around you and wonder how the rest of the world can go on. Sometimes you feel like screaming at strangers, because you can't understand how they can just go on with their lives as if nothing had happened. But of course, for most of the world, nothing important did happen. It's a personal grief, and has to be borne by yourself.
I'm reminded, oddly enough, of the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine pilot, "Emissary." The wormhole aliens keep bringing Sisko back to witness the death of his wife, and when he asks them to stop, they tell him that they're not the ones doing it; he is. "You exist here," they tell him. And so there's a part of me that still exists back in November 2, 1990, a world in which I'm still a senior in college, dealing with the shock of this sudden loss.
It's an odd feeling to go through a regular day at work, while having the memory of fifteen years ago follow me around.
When I lost my father, it was like the world had stopped. It did stop, for him, but it also stopped briefly for my family. And when something like this happens, you look around you and wonder how the rest of the world can go on. Sometimes you feel like screaming at strangers, because you can't understand how they can just go on with their lives as if nothing had happened. But of course, for most of the world, nothing important did happen. It's a personal grief, and has to be borne by yourself.
I'm reminded, oddly enough, of the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine pilot, "Emissary." The wormhole aliens keep bringing Sisko back to witness the death of his wife, and when he asks them to stop, they tell him that they're not the ones doing it; he is. "You exist here," they tell him. And so there's a part of me that still exists back in November 2, 1990, a world in which I'm still a senior in college, dealing with the shock of this sudden loss.
