It would be a mistake to picture life as a straight line from birth to death. Life is more like an island we wander across, following trails or making our own. Picture an island, covered with trees, rivers, valleys, filled with other people. On all sides of this island, death is a quiet ocean with unpredictable tides. Everyone eventually finds the shore, and looks out at a sea that might very well be nothing at all, it is so silent. After the noise and bustle of the island, that quiet is unnerving. But itís too late now. Those tides are strong, and they are swept away.
And the instant their head is pulled under the waves, they can hear whale song and the shuffle of crabs and lobster across the oceanís floor. There is something here. Something they wouldnít know how to explain, even if they could get back to shore. So, they donít try. They let the tides pull them deeper and deeper, and nobody on the island knows.
It's beginning to feel a tiny bit like autumn, and all I can think about is sinking into a cozy bed (perhaps something along these lines
?) and reading comics. I finally read Craig Thompson's Habibi
the other day, and found it incredibly absorbing and complex. The subtle shifts in time were particularly impressive.