Death at the funeral

Death is displacement and bewilderment, the priming of something; you don't know what exactly. At the moment I'm going through the motions and feel everything as distant, foreign as a derelict castle with cunning crows over flying, surveying the terrain, that is, the remnants of memory. I have to forge myself with the armour of love and venture over there, dare to ensnare the shadows whilst they fall over me like wet spider nets, and wait in pain for the time when daylight first begins.

Yesterday we went to my brother's funeral officiated by a friend priest. I felt both vacant and connected, wanting for the moment to pass, to finish the languishing process that has lasted weeks and weeks, to end it all. You are so aware that his end is real and you just can't forget he is also reached the end of the road. I was seeking words which would shook me into emotion, and some certainly did; all throughout feeling exposed when overflown by tears, violated by my other brother being there watching my every mood with dark disdain. Trying to remember those very few happy times with my now dead brother, as most of them were fearful times, pitying times; however those are also times to return to and feel the raw and gushing realness of them as part of his picture reconstruction.