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I never really thought about death. I mean, not really thought about it. I thought of dying, yes. But not the thing that follows that. The permanent state of being dead. I suppose I did indirectly. At the back of my mind. Subconsciously. Before my maternal grandpa died, I was so afraid of ghosts. Not that I’m not anymore. I still am, of course. I’m a big scaredy-cat. But after his death, I felt more…protected. I would get scared and think, ‘eh!…Lolo Tempul’s got my back‘, as if he was in some other dimension, karate-chopping ghosts on their necks. Somehow that thought comforted me, and I could sleep with the lights off.

But if I think of death directly, I can’t say exactly how I picture it. Because I do believe in Heaven, and many times my prayers would end with ‘take care of lolo, God.’ So yes, I picture him up there with the Big Guy I pray to. But I also picture him down here, hovering near us, haunting his room, watching all of us and chuckling at our antics the way he used to when he was still alive. And really, both scenarios warm my heart.

I suppose you’re wondering what brought this on. Oftentimes I write about passing…of pain, of wanting to escape. That is what I think of dying. But after reading Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger, I’ve started thinking of the afterlife. Will I linger? Where? Will I haunt anyone? Or will I simply still exist without actually existing? Stuck in another room with one-sided mirrors for walls, always so close but never quite there. Will I long to be alive again? To be with the people I love? To touch again? To be warm again? Or will I simply relish the freedom that I felt eluded me during my living years?



Is in her mid-20s. Is a girl. Loves to write. Loves taking pictures. Vents a lot. Finds her days too boring. Finds herself too sheltered. Wants to meet a faerie, for real. Swears a lot. Knows that's bad. Just might have too dirty a mind.

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May 2019
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