Morrissey Is My Man

Something about cemeteries has always fascinated me. They reek of the transience of life in a perpetually beautiful way. Cemetery Gates, The Smiths With loves, and hates and passions just like mine. They were born and then they lived and then they died. These words make me internally quiver every time. Every time I hear them, I just want to shout every fucking word into the face of ignorant humanity.  Life is simplistic. It starts and ends in a monotonous manner and suddenly, we are irrelevant. We are dead.

Earlier in the year I traveled to my paternal homeland, New Zealand. Opposite one hotel in Auckland was Symonds Street Cemetery. I spent enough time there to dig a grave. I would sit amongst decaying leaves, surrounded by names and dates and faded tomb stones. The tomb stones meant nothing, yet they were everything. To me they were a symbol of time; a beacon simplicity and the recipe of life.

Today I lost a friend. All I could think of were the decaying leaves which littered the floor of Symonds Street Cemetery. His life seemed as equally as ephemeral. We complicate things with time, we take time for granted. Life is simple; at least Morrissey can speak my language .With loves, and hates and passions just like mine. They were born and then they lived and then they died.