Weight of the words.

It is not because other people are dead that our affection for them grows faint, it is because we ourselves are dying. Marcel Proust.

I read that this morning when I took a break from house hold chores. It made me sad in a way. I wondered if it was in fact true. The person gone is perhaps not the person lost at all? I don't like that notion at all! It makes me think I am wasting something. I shouldn't sleep in, I shouldn't read that book for a second (or third) time, I shouldn't turn up the television because the birds outside are chirping over the modern drone....

But then- that might be another wrong way of looking at it. There are a multitudes of ways to mess up- so surely in that same vein there must be as many ways to get it right.

I know I have more than one smile, more than one tear and DEFINITELY more than one mood. So maybe I'm not dying Proust. Maybe I am growing further out of field.

The moral might be to perhaps not weigh too heavily on the words a man wrote while he was probably still in bed...