Today I returned V.'s library books to the university library; chased by a student who wanted to chat, I just pulled away and said it was a difficult day.
Difficult especially because one of our first-year students committed suicide last night; a sweet kid, one who had had problems with depression and anxiety, but who hadn't shown any signs of them in class or his work lately. I was supposed to meet with his family today – they cancelled at the last minute, clearly too overcome to discuss the matter with any more strangers.
I suppose I am, have even practically presented myself as, a kind of expert on illness, death, loss: Nachiketas, the boy who makes friends with death. I do know the right things to say, what to do, I can fairly dispassionately see what people are going through and carefully maneuver around it, handle whatever shock or pitfall they are on the verge of at a given moment. A bit like a doctor, not quite like an undertaker.
Of course what's silly here is that I haven't learned for myself the best and most direct lessons from death. V. had clearly learned them – that people die, things go wrong, so: you work with what you've got and put energy into each day, because you won't have all that many of them. I, unfortunately, tend to indulge my tendencies towards laziness and passivity – even knowing that there is really nothing for me in life but getting work done, I still coast, leave it unfinished, leave projects in their fantastical unwritten but imagined states.
Ah well. At least I'm an expert at something....
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