obsession
Recently, I was told that children don’t think about dying because they’re too young. They like getting into violent quarrels and riding their cycles too fast. Babies are fearless- licking crap off the floor, crawling off of beds, casually wanting to touch fire. This got me thinking of myself- what about me? I was obsessed with death when I was child. I stood with my feet poking out of my balcony ledge, staring down. I didn’t see the floor, there was a tarpol sheet that was stretched just a little above the ground where we threw all our waste. If I fall, I’ll land on a pile of filth. My grandfather’s father died when I was five or six. I have no memory of ever seeing him, except for the day I saw his corpse. He was a dark skinned man, covered in all white, lying prostrate on the floor. I was asked if I wanted to see him, and then they lifted the cloth from over his face and showed me. That was the only dead person I knew at age of three. Yet still, I was te