Implicated
It does involve me.
Death is so unfair, so final, for those who die. Life is all they have and then, suddenly, it's stolen. For it is the soul, not the body, that dies. The very soul dies. The very spark, the very source of life, is extinguished. Afterwards, slowly, the body dies. Decomposes.
You can't put back life when it has gone. You can't make up for it, for what is lost. It is a brief excursion into experience, a spark of life-throb looping over. Only a brief, brief moment of life. Then gone.
We have to make our touch when we can, for any moment it may be stolen from us. We must make our touch, and not be afraid. Must must overcome this inertial fear of reaching out to touch. We have to be willing to brave ridicule, brave illegitimacy, for touch.
We must place our very life against the inertia.
Carol. Carol. What was she? I don't know. She remains beyond me, beyond my touch. Dead, because I couldn't touch her.
Her reaching to me was a reach for life. My reach back I had waited too late.
I am implicated. I am involved. I am an accessory. As we are all implicated, concerning the lives of those we know. We are, for all we have met, an accessory either to life or to death.
Are we to let circumstances bar us from life?
Are we to allow ourselves forced into being accessories to death?
