Last week the domain of my first website Hemlock Time, the one that gave birth to my writing career, expired. WordPress emailed me a couple of times earlier reminding me of the impending expiration and asked me if I wanted to renew the domain subscription.
Like mental images of a lost love, memories of Hemlock Time flashed in my head. Registering the domain. Getting my first set of comments from fellow bloggers. Receiving encouraging words from strangers around the world. Being informed that one of your stories healed a rift between a mother and a daughter. And uploading your first e-book. While the memories reminded me of past happy times, I knew the ultimate choice to make. I would not renew the domain anymore.
With a tinge of sadness I closed the browser tab where I typed Hemlock Time's URL. If a part of me didn't die with the realisation Hemlock Time would be no more then something else died instead. I conjured a mental funeral for Hemlock Time, delivered a eulogy, and threw a bouquet of daffodils as the coffin was lowered under the ground. Hemlock Time's gone, another trophy for Death.
Thinking of Death made me realise something. We only care about the deaths (that already happened or that are still to come) of people, either ourselves or our loved-ones, and miss other kinds of death that happen here, there, sometime, or somewhere.
One example is the death of our old pair of leather shoes which accompanied us to work every day, rain or shine, without any complaining. Did we ever think about it?
How about the death of the plant in our vase? It gave us oxygen in exchange for very little from us, just some sun (which is free) and some water (which costs very little).
How about the death of our old computer, tired and worn out after years of loyal service to us? We created our first email together, or our Facebook account, or our thesis document. It even helped us look for our first job.
How about the death of the relationship with that old friend of ours? They used to fill our SMS inbox or our mobile notifications. We used to get together. Then we stopped. Both of us couldn't be bothered. After all there were new friends to spend time with, like new toys to keep us busy.
How about, heaven forbid, the death of our dreams, that thing we wanted so bad, that gave us an indescribable feeling whenever we thought about it, that resided in the deepest place in our heart and fed our soul? Have we noticed its death at all?
Meanwhile, our favourite fictional character on TV dies and we weep about it. We mourn the death in social media and in water cooler talks. We declare injustice and pronounce the end of the world. But the other dreams, heaven forbid, we don't take notice. In fact, we miss them. We miss them at all!