DWJ

You've all heard this by now from all over, but Diana Wynne Jones has died. I may be able to write more sensibly about this later, though I doubt it; right now I just want to pace about the Silence Room muttering to myself and kicking bookshelves. Books are magic, but apparently not magic enough.

(no subject)

Life is lossy; it's hardly a revelation. You get used to it. And yet, and yet...

When I was a kid, I was blessed; it seemed like nobody died. As soon as I stepped through into adulthood and independence, it seemed like everybody died. It was almost my definition of maturity: you grew up, and then you died. It's still something of a surprise that I didn't. Even now I have friends who poke me meditatively every now and then, just to be sure.

Since then it's been slow, it's been difficult, there have been bloody awful setbacks but I've been making a recover. Cutting down on funerals. Cutting down on the need for funerals, which is the point. No more dying, people. I thought we were clear on this. I've had enough.

And now we've lost Eva and Diana both inside six months, and suddenly I feel wary again. Like I need to watch people, nudge them away from the threshold. Say things that matter, because, y'know. Something to take with them if they choose to go regardless.

This too is hardly news, that death makes me dramatic. It'll pass. I'll have a drink or two, and go out this evening with extremely healthy friends and not think about it, not need to think about it; and time will grind this away, along with everything else. That's entropy for you.

But that's the point, really: that nothing ever gets any bloody better.