There is something out there which is difficult to be saw and understand. (The Ring 1)
I thought you were dead,_ I say. __t almost killed me.___id it?_ His voice is neutral. __ou made a pretty fast recovery.___o. You don__ understand._ My throat is tight; I feel as though I__ being strangled. __ couldn__ keep hoping, and then waking up every day and finding out it wasn__ true, and you were still gone. I__ wasn__ strong enough.__e is quiet for a second. It__ too dark to see his expression: He is standing in shadow again, but I can sense that he is staring at me.Finally he says, __hen they took me to the Crypts, I thought they were going to kill me. They didn__ even bother. They just left me to die. They threw me in a cell and locked the door.___lex._ The strangled feeling has moved from my throat to my chest, and without realizing it, I have begun to cry. I move toward him. I want to run my hands through his hair and kiss his forehead and each of his eyelids and take away the memory of what he has seen. But he steps backward, out of reach.__ didn__ die. I don__ know how. I should have. I__ lost plenty of blood. They were just as surprised as I was. After that it became a kind of game__o see how much I could stand. To see how much they could do to me before I_____e breaks off abruptly. I can__ hear any more; don__ want to know, don__ want it to be true, can__ stand to think of what they did to him there. I take another step forward and reach for his chest and shoulders in the dark. This time, he doesn__ push me away. But he doesn__ embrace me either. He stands there, cold, still, like a statue.__lex._ I repeat his name like a prayer, like a magic spell that will make everything okay again. I run my hands up his chest and to his chin. ____ so sorry. I__ so, so sorry.__uddenly he jerks backward, simultaneously finding my wrists and pulling them down to my sides. __here were days I would rather they have killed me._ He doesn__ drop my wrists; he squeezes them tightly, pinning my arms, keeping me immobilized. His voice is low, urgent, and so full of anger it pains me even more than his grip. __here were days I asked for it__rayed for it when I went to sleep. The belief that I would see you again, that I could find you__he hope for it__as the only thing that kept me going._ He releases me and takes another step backward. __o no. I don__ understand.
Requiem
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I thought you were dead,_ I say. __t almost killed me.___id it?_ His voice is neutral. __ou made a pretty fast recovery.___o. You don__ understand._ My throat is tight; I feel as though I__ being strangled. __ couldn__ keep hoping, and then waking up every day and finding out it wasn__ true, and you were still gone. I__ wasn__ strong enough.__e is quiet for a second. It__ too dark to see his expression: He is standing in shadow again, but I can sense that he is staring at me.Finally he says, __hen they took me to the Crypts, I thought they were going to kill me. They didn__ even bother. They just left me to die. They threw me in a cell and locked the door.___lex._ The strangled feeling has moved from my throat to my chest, and without realizing it, I have begun to cry. I move toward him. I want to run my hands through his hair and kiss his forehead and each of his eyelids and take away the memory of what he has seen. But he steps backward, out of reach.__ didn__ die. I don__ know how. I should have. I__ lost plenty of blood. They were just as surprised as I was. After that it became a kind of game__o see how much I could stand. To see how much they could do to me before I_____e breaks off abruptly. I can__ hear any more; don__ want to know, don__ want it to be true, can__ stand to think of what they did to him there. I take another step forward and reach for his chest and shoulders in the dark. This time, he doesn__ push me away. But he doesn__ embrace me either. He stands there, cold, still, like a statue.__lex._ I repeat his name like a prayer, like a magic spell that will make everything okay again. I run my hands up his chest and to his chin. ____ so sorry. I__ so, so sorry.__uddenly he jerks backward, simultaneously finding my wrists and pulling them down to my sides. __here were days I would rather they have killed me._ He doesn__ drop my wrists; he squeezes them tightly, pinning my arms, keeping me immobilized. His voice is low, urgent, and so full of anger it pains me even more than his grip. __here were days I asked for it__rayed for it when I went to sleep. The belief that I would see you again, that I could find you__he hope for it__as the only thing that kept me going._ He releases me and takes another step backward. __o no. I don__ understand.
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As survivors and procreators, we unravel stories that at their root are not dissimilar from the habitual behaviors seen in nature. But as beings who know they will die we digress into episodes and epics that are altogether dissociated from the natural world. We may isolate this awareness, distract ourselves from it, anchor our minds far from its shores, and sublimate it as a motif in our sagas. Yet at no time and in no place are we protected from being tapped on the shoulder and reminded, __ou__e going to die, you know._ However much we try to ignore it, our consciousness haunts us with this knowledge. Our heads were baptized in the font of death; they are doused with the horror of moribundity.
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