The Sorrow of Angels

He who dies never returns, we’ve lost him, no power in the universe is able to bring us the warmth of a vanished life, the sound of a voice, the hand movements, the touch of humour. All the details that comprise life and give it validity have vanished into eternity, vanished only to leave an open wound in the heart that time gradually transforms into a swollen scar. Yet he who dies never leaves us completely, which is a paradox that comforts and torments at once; he who dies is both near and far.

Many choose to keep silent when life stings them hardest, since words are often just lifeless stones or torn and tattered garments. And they can also be weeds, harmful disease vectors, rotten pieces of wood that can’t even hold an ant, let alone a man’s life. Yet they’re one of the few things that we actually have handy when everything appears to have betrayed us. Keep that in mind. As well as that which no-one understands – that the least important, most unlikely words can, entirely unexpectedly, carry a great load and bring life undamaged over dizzying ravines.