A day after a friend passed away and about a month after a former student was murdered, another former student of mine died yesterday. It was accident, they say, a death nonetheless.
In one creative writing class, I wrote a story where many people related to the character are dead. The grandmother is dead, the friend is dead, somebody else is dead. The professor said we can’t have too many corpses in a story (Murakami exempted?).
I wish I could say that in Life, too. Tell the Author: hey, man, we can’t have too many corpses in a story.
But so many artists have written about death as if it’s a natural thing. In high school, Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson gave me the creeps when they talk about death. In Biology death is a natural thing. Imagine the world without death, said some doctor-essayist; overpopulation and boredom would be a growing concern.
It’s still interesting to imagine, though, if everyone who ever lived in this planet is still alive today. Insane picture!
The randomness of death throughout the years should’ve prepared us for every death we encounter, yet, we can never really be prepared no matter how many times we tell ourselves, we’re all gonna die, life is short, life is short, life is nasty, brutish and short.
Death is a shocker. Especially if it takes away promising, young lives.
Tin Panopio has a promising, young life. She belongs to the batch that I love dearly, “batch 2005,” because they were freshmen that time, the first batch that I handled in the University. Tin is very thin, in a gorgeous way. Her dresses and outfit are always pretty and fashionable, just like many Communication Arts students. Her comments are sharp, her eyes are smiling. Her smiles and “Hi” whenever we pass by each other before are so happy you’d think she said “It’s so nice to see you again!” through a smile. She was in an English 2 class of mine, section C3, that section jam-packed with so many pretty Comm Arts girls (said one of her male classmates before, with a naughty smile), then again, in an advertising class that I handled.
She once lived in a compound (apartment) where I lived and she told me one time that my laughter is so loud and shrill, she and her housemates could hear it downstairs (I was on second floor) and we laughed.
Rest in peace, beautiful Tin. Forgive me if my laughter would bother you over there from time to time.