My guy and I drove out to Brownwood in the Villages last weeked to walk the farmer's market, and on the way home stopped in at Wildwood Antique Mall so I could look for some things for October decor and projects. Of course I came home with a little haul. :) I found another ghostly framed picture at the same booth I bought one last year , and had to own it. I might have to do a whole wall with these eventually. This pumpkin brooch will be adorning the October tote for my calendar project. I also invested in a mystery bag of jewelry, and got a nice set of silver and pearl pieces. I considered cutting up this kitchen towel for its Halloween colors and using the pieces for my tote, but I think I'll keep it intact and use it in the kitchen this month. I want to make some prim stuffies for Halloween, but I forgot that I used up almost all of my quilt pieces for my 2025 calendar project, so I looked for and found some very cheap to bring home. This is ...
Recently I read some fiction in which a terribly abused character regarded death as a dark, quiet room. She doesn't die during the story, and in fact her life turns around in a huge way shortly after that. The imagery of death as she viewed it was what stayed with me. In a bright, loud world where life is perpetually coming at you (and constantly subjecting you to some form of abuse) death as a dark, quiet room seems quite appealing. Being finished handling all these exhausting people and their demands does, too. It's where all the pain stops. You're finally alone (and I do understand that longing more than I realized.) As a writer I've thought of death in a zillion ways, probably, but I keep coming back to crossing a finish line. The end of a life is that kind of end -- we're finished with this whole beautiful, disastrous mess of existence. I don't want to debate what happens after death, because (assuming consciousness survives) we'll never know...