memento mori

Ayumi was no longer in this world. She was a cold corpse that was being sent for forensic analysis. After, they would give her a simple funeral, send her to the crematorium, and burn her. She would turn into smoke, rise up into the sky, and mix with the clouds. Then she would come down to the earth again as rain, and nurture some nameless patch of grass. This seemed warped and misguided, and horribly unfair.— Haruki Murakami, 1Q84Such were my ponderings when Eva and I set off on our daily walk at the crack of dawn.That passage has been sitting with me for weeks now, like a stone in the shoe of my thoughts. Grief, in its rawest form, has begun to change shape. It no longer only crashes over me; it seeps in, quieter, more insistent. And with it comes something else — a growing sense of moriturism.A small, almost imperceptible jolt: this is it. This life. Not a drill. Not a story for later. Just this brief, flickering glimpse of the universe.Going around the last bend on the way home, we…