Paul Walker had to die during PMS week.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

My boss and I were talking a lot about death yesterday. Paul Walker dying so close to us really hit a nerve. I still can't believe what happened. I stared at the blank space to the left of my notebook lines and focused on drawing 3D boxes, focused on not letting that sharp ball grow in my throat.

5, 10, 15 minutes in, 15, 30, 45 3D boxes in, I had to interrupt with what I had been trying to box out, because if I waited a second longer I would’ve screamed and quit.

"I just don’t get it. I don’t get how I could ever be dead. I don’t understand how this can all stop for me, any second now."

She replied that she was at peace with her life, she’s never been afraid of dying, but that she begged God that morning to give her at least one more day. She just knows “that’s life” and there’s nothing we can do.

"But how can you be okay with it? How do you get there? Someday I’m just not going to be here. Someday I’ll never get to draw a 3D box again or sit on this floor or hold Brad."

My voice didn’t crack, but it didn’t sound strong and I looked down and didn’t say anything for the rest of the conversation because I couldn’t.

Someday I’m going to be rotting organic matter. I will be burnt past a crisp or left in the dirt to decompose unnaturally: embalmed and sectioned off from nature. Someday I’ll never be able smile again, paint my nails, take a walk, hug a dog, laugh, go to La Cocina, take a shower, or touch another human. Someday it will all be over and I really don’t think there’s anything else. I think someday this will all be gone, like it never happened, and I don’t know how to get over that.