Death · Michael Zadoorian

Just like the beginning of the Wonderful world of Disney TV show. Maybe that’s why I wanted to head here this time. I know it’s ridiculous, but part of me wants to think that the world after this one could look like that. Like I said before, I stopped having notions about religion and heaven long ago – angels and harps and clouds and all that malarkey. Yet some silly, childish side of me still wants to believe in something like this. A gleaming world of energy and light, where nothing is quite the same color as it is on earth, everything bluer, greener, redder. Or maybe we just become the colors,  that light spilling from the sky over the castle. Perhaps it would be somewhere we’ve already been, the place we were before we were born, so dying is simply a return. I guess if that were true, then somehow we’d remember it. Maybe that’s what I’m doing with this whole trip -looking for somewhere that I remember, deep in some crevice of my soul. 

The leisure seeker, Michael Zadoorian

Death · Michael Zadoorian

I know now that we have found that place between dark and light,  between waking and sleeping. Our travel end here and, simply put, it’s a relief.  (…) I know this all seems horrible and shocking and lurid, but I have to tell you, it really isn’t. Long ago, John and I made up our own rules, crafted from the most mundane of things: mortgages, jobs, children, quarrels, ailments, routine, time, fear, pain, love, home. We built a life together and will happily do what comes after together. I say if love is what bonds us during our lives, why can’t it still somehow bond us, keeps us together after our deaths?

Michael Zadoorian, The Leisure Seeker

Michael Zadoorian

It’s good this way, good that we’re not speaking. Speaking would only ruin it.  This is exactly the sort of thing that makes traveling wonderful for me, the reason I defied everyone. The two of us together like we have always been, not saying anything, not doing anything special, just on vacation. I know nothing lasts, but even when you know that things are just about over, sometimes you can run back and take a little bit more and no one will notice.

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You spend your life so worried about what others think, when in reality, people mostly don’t think. On the few occasions when they do, true, it is often something bad, but one has to at least admire the fact that they’re thinking at all.

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I realize that this is the problem with photographs. After a while, you can’t remember if you’re recalling the actual memory or the memory of the photograph. Or perhaps the photograph is the only reason you remember that moment.

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You worry about your parents, siblings, spouses dying, yet no one prepares you for your friends dying. Every time you flip through your address book, you are reminded of it—she’s gone, he’s gone, they’re both gone. Names and numbers and addresses scratched out. Page after page of gone, gone, gone. The sense of loss that you feel isn’t just for the person. It is the death of your youth, the death of fun, of warm conversations and too many drinks, of long weekends, of shared pains and victories and jealousies, of secrets that you couldn’t tell anyone else, of memories that only you two shared.

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The memories we take to the ends of our lives have no real rhyme or reason, especially when you think of the endless things that you do over the course of a day, a week , a month, a year, a lifetime. All the cups of coffee, hand-washings, changes of clothes, lunches, goings to the bathroom, headaches, naps, walks to school, trips to the grocery store, conversations about the weather —all the things so unimportant that they should be immediately forgotten. Yet they aren’t.

The leisure seeker, Michael Zadoorian