Looking out the window. It looks gray. After a lot of hours, the family comes home, one by one. As they left, I lay in bed. When they get home, I'm in bed. They look a little longingly at my pillows, warm quilts, piles of magazines and books. Maybe they're thinking they'd like to swap with me.
I'd love to switch.
Updating my status on FB, getting some comments pretty quickly. People who feel sorry, and who tell of their own accident stories.
I've been through that before. When an acquaintance, friend or relative dies, I often hear my friends talk about their own experiences of death. I used to get a little confused by that. I wondered why it felt so important to compare accidents. Or even compete a little in them.
Now, with window views of slowly approaching days, I'm struck by another thought. Maybe it's their way of understanding and dealing with difficult things. To relate it to themselves, and their own lives. Perhaps, therefore, sometimes it is easier to get to know new people of about the same age as oneself. There is a lot in common, many experiences that can unite. Perhaps it is not an egocentric need to always put oneself at the center, that makes people pick out their own stories, but on the contrary, a pretty good method of dealing with and empathizing with the unfortunate.
Or?
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