The Meaning of Life; The Meaning(less) of Death

Death is so final, and I’m not sure how to deal with that.

I’ve always known that, in theory. I first grasped the meaning of death when I was 9 years old, the year my grandfather passed away. I remember it taking a while for me to understand that I will never see him again, at least not in this lifetime. But in the end, I got it. I made peace with it. I turned 10 and innately knew that my grandfather wouldn’t be there this time.

But one thing I’ve learned about death is that grasping its meaning with one person does not make it easier with the next soul that leaves us. Coming to terms with death is not a blanket feeling you can throw onto the world, accepting and saying farewell to friends, family and loved one with the same understanding of death you attained at 9 years old.

Death hits you like a train in the middle of the ocean. Unexpected, unexplained, and you’re back to square one; to the same feeling of confusion you had when your mum told you grandpa had gone to heaven and won’t be with us anymore.

Three days ago, I found out that Death had knocked on an old colleague’s door, and I felt my brain eject the understanding I thought I had of what that truly meant yet again. I didn’t understand why my mind suddenly couldn’t grasp what this turn of events entailed. She was kindhearted, genuine and incredibly hardworking. And I couldn’t – can’t – believe she’s not with us anymore.

For three days, it’s felt like my mind has been doing complex mental exercises to try to re-learn the meaning of death and its consequences. But every Instagram tribute knocks me off my progress, taking me back to a state of confusion and… heartbreak.

I don’t think this will ever really make sense. All I can do is pray her family and loved ones find peace.

All I can do is pray.

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