‘Will I be killed instantly, or will I feel the flesh burning off my face before I’m released?’
Why didn’t I fear dying? Was it because, in that critical and very long moment, I knew that death was no big deal? Was it because I was so focussed on keeping the boxes wet and cold while Paddy pushed back the fire that I didn’t have the time to dwell on it? I don’t know.
The next interesting question is why I’m more afraid of dying now, all these years on, than I was then. Is it because I simply have the time to dwell on it? Or is it because the longer you live, the more familiar you become with your present identity and the more reluctant you are to give it up? I don’t know that either. Maybe I’m not yet old enough to know.
More late night thoughts…
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Meanwhile, I took a listen to some songs recorded by Sarah Jarosz tonight. I saw her on a Transatlantic Sessions programme during the winter. The context suggested that she was maybe an Irish or Hebridean colleen (in spite of the surname.) Tonight I discovered that she’s actually from Texas. That’s the closest I can come to an interesting fact.
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The priestess said to me recently: ‘I don’t know what you talk about any more.’ Neither do I, and who’s listening anyway?