Memento Mori means “remember death.” Take any cues from the natural world and extract the morbid symbolism from it. Feel small and human. Use that as the backdrop for your existance. In classical painting, this meant dark canvasses of skulls and candles. For me, I look at a musician on a stage, in the middle of a guitar solo, or singing, riding the poetic space between the mind and the body, and I think about how that person, someday, will rot in a box. I talk to a friend, watch as their eyes meet mine, note the facial expressions, muscles moving, sparked by ideas, passions, pain, joy, laughter, and I think about how our bodies can’t sustain our spirits. Eventually, our bodies give up, and leave our spirits to fend for themselves. This is not a depressing thought, because the reminders of death are staring me down in the form of life. I look around me and I’m filled up by the fact that I’m sharing this moment with other living people, and at the same time I’m disgusted by how people cheapen existance. There’s no shortage of ugliness. Take your pick. War. Rape. Manipulation. Consumerism. I walk down the street, lonely as hell, knowing I’d be better off if I was a part of the problem, but I put those thoughts away because I know it’s not right. And I go on because death is automatic. If you have to work, and push, and struggle, then it’s a sign of life.
I wasn’t doing very well a year ago. I still feel like I’m not. I still live with myself, use myself as a springboard, scapegoat and punching bag. But there are people who are a part of this post, who might remember me mentioning this stuff, and those are the people who make me feel like I’m connected to my own existance. My friends make alienation tolerable.