Paint it Black

And then you go to a funeral of someone who is not close and it’s like a gigantic red light on a zebra crossing. You stop; and when the paintings on the ceiling become boring, you think. You start to remember the names of the ones before: in-Nannu Karlu, in-Nannu Ganni, in-Nanna Mary, Maria, Jason, il-Bomba, Daniel…And it starts kicking in. You slowly but steadily become introspective. You think about your own life and your loved ones. You think about how you should tell your parents you love them more often. You try to picture yourself in the shoes that are standing up front. You think how frivolous everything else is in comparison. You think how superficial the things that occupied your mind before are. You empathise with the bereaved, and get a heavy knot when their relative speaks. You feel the faces walking behind the hearse dampen your expression, painting your spirits black. You feel the gloom throw its arm around you. You wonder how the sun can perfectly compliment such a sombre mood and still be the symbol of beautiful days. Sometime during the service you experience a change in consciousness. You feel changed, for the better.

Still, somewhere in the back of your mind you know that the chances are that you will eventually get over everything. You know that sometime soon, the irrelevant details in your life will regain their priority and the football match will then become more important than existential dilemmas. Just like a drug, an anti-drug if you will, it temporarily alters your state of mind. It alters your mood and gives you a cerebral introspective low, one that shakes you right through and let’s you out slowly. One that helps give you some perspective. One that humbly and quietly asks you, if not forces you, to appreciate the things that matter.