Dark Corners And Rage: Part 2 The Eulogy

I think that I’ll start this with an apology that Part 1 is and will remain private.

I am a philosophical nihilist, monist, materialist, anti-theist, atomist and so on. There are those that think such people have no moral compass or reason to live and so on. I stand here in sharp contrast to those people’s ideas.

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The truth of the matter is that there is no intrinsic meaning or purpose to life and further that even those who think there is make up their own meaning to their lives. They just pretend it is about something else that none of us can see or test.

Despite the confusion over what these labels mean and what a person of these labels may or may not be or feel, I have deeply held beliefs. One of those deeply held beliefs is that the only thing we have is our experiences, our memories. These are all that we carry with us no matter where we go and no matter our situation in life. These things are intrinsically part of who we are. They _are_ important. As such, I am not averse to experiencing everything I can … even if it is painful or hurtful or harmful. To truly know what life is and what it means to be alive I believe that you have to experience it. I don’t think that selectively choosing what to experience is being in control of yourself. No, facing those experiences with the gusto of Hercules is being in control. You can’t say that you know what a hurricane is like till you’ve weathered one out. Life gives us hurricanes here and there. I try to face them, revel in it, languor in the experience of it.

Another firmly held belief I hold is that it is not possible to truly hold an understanding of what it means to be alive unless you have shared moments of compassion with another life. To accept and show compassion to another life, big or small, is to understand the reality of possibilities in connecting with another being. We live, trapped in our minds, visited only by vague impulses that render for us some representation of what it is like outside our minds. To connect with those senses to another mind at some level of compassion is a vital experience. One that we should not miss out on.

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DARK CORNERS

Very recently I was given just such a hurricane experience. It appeared suddenly and I had no time to prepare. From content and safe to swallowed by the storm. I told myself that I would stand and watch it, weather it out, experience it. When it fell upon me in full force I ran for cover. I found a dark corner and I hunkered down and hid, hoping it would lessen, that the storm would fizzle out some how. It was not to be so. There I huddled against the cold comfort of my former bravery, in the dark and lashing out at anything that came near me.

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RAGE

As I prepared for the rage of the storm I became angry. Why do I have to experience this? Why can anyone or anything take away from me a friend that I have shared moments of compassion with? What gives them a right? What did I do to the universe that I must experience this pain and grief? Why is it necessary that my friend must die? Why? I became angry. I filled with rage and wanted to go berserk. I wanted to be the storm, I wanted to be more powerful than the storm. And so I raged… I felt it fully. I wanted to kill. I wanted to rampage and leave carnage and death in retaliation for the storm.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas

I was not stronger than the storm. I could not rage enough. I could not make it go away.

Part 2: The Eulogy

Today I lost my friend. A dear friend of 16 years. He never let me down, always spoke in ways to cheer me and sooth the angers of living in the game of life. He was one of my reasons to live at one time, he helped me through many tough times. Speaking just enough to let me know how much he cares. He supported me with all that he was, always ready to show his pleasure at being near me. He was, is, my friend.

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I held his weakened body in my arms, spoke in soothing sounds to calm him.

As the first plunger sent him to sleep, no longer able to make soothing sounds, my chest began to heave.

As the second plunger slowed his heart my arms began to shake, my tears unnoticed by his stilled eyes.

I was born alone, I walk alone, and I will die alone. I know that in the grand scheme of the universe my life is no more important than that of my friend. I feel pain and grief and ANGER that such can pass with so very few people even giving a damn. My life will pass as well. It will end  and I will be no more important to the world than my friend was as I held him today.

I have experienced this anger today for the second time in my life. It opened a dark place that I must now climb out of, to find respite from the game of life. I will miss my friend. He was never in the game with me, always waiting outside for my arrival. I will miss him like I would miss a finger. It is fair and right and normal that his life must come to an end. Even normal that I should experience the pain and grief. That didn’t make it fun. He was my friend. I am partly who I am because of him. He is part of my experience, part of my memory. He is important. Even if not one other person feels the same anger, pain, and grief, I will. I cannot be me without the memories and experiences of my friend.

I’m sorry if anyone felt the anger of my grief. I am not sorry that I grieve. I must grieve for a part of who I am no longer is. A part of me stopped existing today. Frozen in the vault of memories in my mind. I am better for both the memories and compassion and for the experience of knowing him and losing him. I am alive. His last breath was spent telling me that I am.

I will miss him.

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  1. Sorry about your loss of your little pal. My cat died about a month ago. It is sad.

    • Thank you. Sorry for your loss also

  2. Very sorry for the loss of your friend.

    • Thank you. Been kind of a bad week. I’ll be better soon.

  3. A toast to your friend. I’m so very, very sorry. I grow sick in my stomach even contemplating that journey to the vet.

    For you

    • Thank you. It’s been quite a day

      • I can’t even begin to imagine.

        • I really know what that feels like now. I’m richer because of him

          • No matter how hard, how painful, to reduce the suffering of a loved one is a duty.

            • It is something that has to be done, but I’ve felt it this deep only twice in my life. I am glad to have experienced it but it sucked really badly

  4. So sorry you’re hurting. 😦

    • Thank you. I will be ok after adjusting

      • It takes a while. ((hug)))

        • Yes, I know it does. I know I will be ok. Thank you

  5. So sorry, MAL! If I could send a real hug through this contraption I would – a giant, heartfelt hug. I adore you and hurt that you lost your friend. Rita

    • Rita, thank you so much. Consider that hug delivered

      • GOOD! I’m so very sorry, MAL. If you are interested in joining my new site – email me at the contact page on the dancing site. You are more than welcome.

  6. Sorry for your loss. *virtual hug*

    • Thank you so much. It cheers me to see so many godless people with so much sympathy.

  7. Very sorry for your loss.

    • Thank you so much. I appreciate that. It is warming to know I’m not alone

      • Certainly.

  8. I am very sorry for your loss.

    • Thank you so much. I can’t say that I know how to deal with it but I know what it feels like now.

  9. “I am a philosophical nihilist, monist, materialist, anti-theist, atomist and so on. ”
    So many labels, but who are you really?

  10. @MAL

    I’m sorry for your loss. Losing a kitteh is always so hard. 😦

    Take care,

    Arb.

    • Thank you for your kind thoughts.

    • preacherontheweb
    • September 13th, 2015

    My condolences my friend. I understand more than you could imagine.
    POTW

  11. I am so sorry for your loss. I am happy you could be there at the end. So many can not be. Ron can not. I have to , it is my last respectful act I can do for one that I loved so and who loved me. The void will pass, and surprising some day another will join you on journey of life, and you will again form that deep bond. Hugs. Many hugs

    • Thank you for the kind words.

      • Hugs and best wishes.

  12. Oh my dear MAL, I am very sorry to hear about your loss. I do hope and know you will come out of darkness. I know this loss is hard for you, especially, since I know it was not too long ago you lost your other friend. It’s hard, it’s sad, and it hurts like hell. So grieve, get angry, hide in a dark corner. It’s only right that you do. But, when you finally can, smile :). Smile for all that your friend was to you. Smile for all that he taught you. Smile for knowing and feeling his love and loyalty.
    Again, so sorry for your loss.. 😦

    • Thank you so much for your kind thoughts

      • Always..

  13. So sorry for your loss MAL. I still remember the searing loss a few years ago of my own long time companion. I will never forget her, as I’m sure you’ll never forget yours.

    Take care.

    • Thank you for your kind thoughts. We both know I’ll be feeling better soon.

  14. We are like twins in the head. Both in experience and summation of events. Sorry for your loss and I totally get it.

    • Thank you for your kind words.

  15. So sorry for your loss. A friend’s death, furry or otherwise, is not easy. I have made that last trip to the vet with three dogs, and expect I will make the trip again with the two dogs I now have (though still many years out). It never gets easier.

    • Thank you for commenting and your kind words. It is never easy. I don’t think that it should be.

      • Exactly what I told my grandson.

    • Argus
    • September 26th, 2015

    Best Friend — been there, done that. Every time I said “Never again”.

    This time I meant it …

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