Auto-Pilot Death

I question things.  I question alot of things.  That can either be an observation, a statement, or maybe just a general conclusion.  It can be whatever you as an individual takes it to be.  But just understand that I question things.  More importantly, I question abilities.  I question concepts, natures, security, structure, and stability.  Sometimes I even question basic knowledge- such as who I am, what day it is, month, year, decade.  I question things on both a simple level, and a complex level.  Sometimes I question things so much it becomes a game for me.  To see how far I can over analyze things without driving myself crazy.  I almost never win.  I play a dangerous game there, questioning knowledge.  There are people who don't like that, and more often than not, when you play a dangerous game, you lose.  1

Sometimes I question motives.  The motives of people, their incentives to the different acts they commit, and why.  Out of love? Hatred? Animosity, jealousy, revenge? There are thousands of different human emotions, yet most humans, including myself, seem to only have a basic grasp of what feeling means.  What it is to feel, what it means to feel.  The sheer and utter importance of feelings, and what it could possibly mean to a single human being.  Many people question the fact of whether there are lots of human emotions- or due to the creativity of mankind, there are only a few minor emotions, with many of hundreds of branches, evolving into their own emotions with their own titles.  I question the ability of man to be able to conceive this notion- maybe it's too complex for what we call our minds.  Maybe other people question this concept as well.  I think, however, that no matter what, I am not alone in this dangerous game that I play.  We all question everything at one point or another- we all play this game of luck, lose, or draw.  There is no winning in the game of guessing- there is also no guarantees. 2

Guaranteeing is another funny concept as well.  Due to the fact of human emotion, one cannot guarantee someone else's reaction.  Nor can one guarantee someone else's reaction due to the cause of someone else's motive.  It's a funny, almost cynical cycle.  3

I remember the first time I saw her, after her father died. My father.  Our father.  I was 14- I'll be 15 soon.  It'll be just a year soon, in a couple of weeks.  I sometimes wonder, or even question, why I went over that day.  Was it my place? Was it my duty? Whatever my so-called motive was, I went over.  I prayed, I hoped, I cried, I loved.  Maybe that was my motive- just to be with someone I cared about in their time of need, however much I needed to be cared for as well at that exact moment.  But it was her father, my father, our father, and for whatever reason, whatever her motive was, she was hurting more than I was.  So I saw fit to console her.4

Motives, as well as guarantee's, are part of this cynical cycle that I'm slowly starting to identify as human life.  I guaranteed her that all would be better, and that no matter what, I'd help everyone in the family, my family, to the best that I could, with no consequence.  Funny how situations turn out that way.  5

Needless to say, however, things change.  They evolve with time, emotion, and feeling.  They evolve as a person matures, finds new ideas, develops new concepts, and starts to identify themselves.  So my determination to help her, me, us, over her fathers death soon shifted as well.  My dead-set determination somehow evolved into dead-set termination.  Termination of myself.  Just as before, I would do everything in my power to help them- but it soon it was no longer light hearted.  I remember the first time I entered his room after he died.  It was like walking into some kind of frozen time capsule, infinite in space.  No movement, feeling, or emotion.  The room had died, along with the man.  And when the man died, so did all the hearts that he had lovingly so held.  His daughters, sons, wives, family, and relatives.  A part of them died with him.   6

But the clock in the room, ironically enough, had frozen two minutes after he died.  And 5 days later, the clock still displayed those burning numbers.  No flashing, no changing, to evolving with time, as most digital clocks do.  This clock was frozen in place, it's numbers burned forever into my mind.  4:43.  4:43.  4:43.  It always was, and always would be 4:43.  I can see it, clear as day, an impression on and in my mind as never before.  7

The day that I decided to help move his bed was another whole different story, and ordeal.  I don't know what caused me to do it- what motive I could possibly have been conceiving in my head at that particular moment to make me want to disturb any remnant of that peaceful sanctuary that man had called his home for the past 25 years.  He build that home, he built his family, and he built himself there.  I question what came over me to believe it was my place to disturb it.  Whatever my motive, I did.8

Motives, emotions, and feelings and never guaranteed to be right.  While doing a particular act may be possibly the best idea of your life at the time- with another's judgement, you're idea and/or motive can soon be shot away, with nothing more than a wisp of smoke at the remnant of what you used to be.  And so I moved the bed.  9

His youngest daughter wanted his bed to sleep in. She was nine, and since her father wasn't there to tuck her in any more, she cried herself to sleep every night.  We tried our best to console her, but nothing in our power could even touch the loss, or hurt she was feeling.  Nothing but our own loss and hurt, which equally matched hers.  So she wanted his bed, to sleep in, to hold, to be comforted by.  I, so willing to help, agreed.10

Emotions flew, torrents raged, and I swear the skies up above opened the moment I disturbed that room so full of grace and love.  Whatever the motive was, whatever the emotion behind the motive, there was no guarantee to please one or the other.  He will have been dead soon for one exact year, and I disturbed his haven.  One sister who wanted the bed and who wanted the world, and couldn't have it, fell to pieces- while the other sister, angry at having the last place she could remember her father by disturbed, fell into a guilt tormented rage.  Either directed at themselves, or others, I couldn't particularly tell.  But I can tell you this.  I question things.  I question alot of things.  That can either be just a simple statement, or something you yourself have gathered as it being a fact of life.  I guarantee you can't please everyone at once.11