It is complicated

it is complicated

to talk about people

without thinking of who they were

to you and to other people

and even more so

when you live amongst them

and see them change over the years

ushering in the disgrace of old age and all the

banal vices

it is complicated to admit

how much you hate them

even if it is not possible to have a life

without them getting on your nerves

it is a trip

to drink with them

and abuse

their ancestors

and have them be furious at you

maybe break the odd beer bottle on your head

and then not make up

try to forget them for a couple of years

it is a disappointment

to hear the news of their passing

alone

in the company of ghosts,

dusty furniture and torn curtains

wrapped in a white sheet

wetting their bed

in the final indignity of death

it is complicated

to hate them

to pity them

when they are not around anymore

and there is no one to drink with anymore

you ultimately realize that

this is how you are going to go too

alone

wrapped in a bed sheet

and in the company of white shadows.

 

 

 

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