It is not unusual for me to think of death. I'd even say that I have a preoccupation with thinking about death. Because of my overactive imagination, I've been able to come up with interesting and creative scenarios of how my death may come to me, and how those closest to me will react to my passing.
Some may say that my obsession with death (mine in particular) is not normal. I'd tell them that they're probably correct; I'd even be willing to bet that those particular people would not see the humor in my senerios.
Humor is the root of a lot of my views and thoughts. Black humor would probably be a better term to use than plain, ol' humor. I see the ironic things in life. Often enough, I laugh at the irony, even if the situation does not call for such outbursts.
A example of this would be:
Yesterday, while in our psychology class, I told Christina of a particular piece of conversation Tom and I had earlier that morning. Tom recapped a certain story I'd told him, the one about how my grandfather committed suicide when my mom was 10. After telling me that the story affected him, that it left him thinking, Tom informed me that my story had inspired him to write a story of his own.
I instinctively thought that Tom would say that his story was a sad one, one that resembled the sad story of my grandfather's death.
See, in 1960 or '61, my grandfather returned home from work very early one day. He hadn't been feeling right, but still my Mema was surprised to see him come home. She was even more surprised to find him beating her with an iron skillet. Somehow, she'd gotten away from Ray (my grandfather) by hiding under the kitchen table. She saw Ray walk towards the back of the house -- that direction indicated that he was intending to get one of his guns. Frightened, my Mema snuck out from under the table and ran out of the back door. There was less than 5 minutes between the time Mema safely got out of the house, to the clothes line in the backyard, and the shot that rang out from inside of the house.
Ray shot himself in the head. My Mema was left with her head busted open, a wound that required stitches by the doctor that, only weeks before, told Ray that he had the flu. Ray sought out the doctors help because he hadn't been "feeling right" for some weeks.
So, it is no wonder that I was a bit surprised when Tom told me that he'd written a love story.
It was probably wrong of me to laugh when I made the comment, "My Mema getting beat with an iron skillet inspired a love story."
Though you, the reader, may not find that funny, I must admit that I do. Sometimes, you just have to laugh.
As for my latest death scenario, I've come to conclusion that it would be very interesting to die as Michael Jackson sings Heal The World somewhere in the background.
How appropriate would that be?
Heal the world,
Make it a better place,
For you and for me,
And the entire human race.
There are people dying
If you care enough for the living
Make a better place
For you and for me.
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