In a city as little as mine, you would think that death doesn’t exist. There are only two or three tragic deaths per year, so it’s easy for us to forget, or try to.
Yesterday night a girl I knew died, crushing her car against a wall. It wasn’t fate, nor destiny, nor unluckiness: it was her fault, or the fault of who was in the car in front of her. This is something we, as a community, can’t bear.
Why would a girl go so fast in her car, at 4 in the morning? Why would another car invade her side of the road?
Why wouldn’t this other car stop, once she crashed loudly into millions of bricks?
Does the other car feel guilt? Or does it feel lucky to be alive?
If we think about it from a scientific point of view, there was only a chance out of three that she survived. In fact, she would have been alive only if the other driver died.
Leaving this planet at nineteen years old seems so wrong.
Leaving a wreaked mum, a shocked community, crying friends.
Only her memories are here: silly photos, tales of concerts she went to, her love for Ed Sheeran.
Why does she feel still alive for us?
Is it normal?
Will we forget about her? Are we going to think this has never happened?
How are we supposed to mourn a girl so lively and colour full? Will she be able to dye her hair again? Or… it’s all ended?
I want to finish this off with this poem:
Death is just the turn of the road, to die is just not to be seen.
If I listen, I her your steps exist as I exist.
Earth is made of sky.
Falsehood has no nest.
Nobody has ever been lost.
Everything is truth and transition.
-Fernando Pessoa
