sdr

Some days are longer than others.

Some days don’t really exist.

Some days are an eternity.

Some days blend into each other.

Some days are those last few, at the end of days.

 

 

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On the relativity of time

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It wasn’t the initial disappearance of all internet connectivity in itself that wiped out the human race.
Granted, the sudden annihilation of money caused riots that led to the early demise of billions of individuals. The very small percentage of paper money that still existed rapidly lost all meaning.
The few survivors who were able to reinstate a barter system were in turn severely affected by the food shortages and pandemics.
But the human race was not at that stage completely extinguished.

What really hammered the nail in the coffin of this species on the brink of extinction was the gradual realisation that they would never be able, ever again, to stream funny videos of kittens falling in a fish tank or brawling Russian drivers caught on dashcam.

Mass suicides brought an end to lives that were no longer worth living.

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Death of the internet

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One of the main reasons for this French trip, this swim upstream back to the source, was the deadline of going to see my granny before she sinks further into the slowsands of dementia.

She did recognise me. Or rather she did recognise a version of me in her muddled past-cum-present.

Poor Brigitte. She is not in a good place. Physically, she is in as good a place as could be expected, given the circumstances.
But in her mind, she is in distress.

She catches glimpses of her current state.

She can feel herself sinking ever deeper.

And she cannot put it into words.

She cannot demand relief.

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Brigitte

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The only thing that kept going through my mind.
The overwhelming trauma of the numbers.
The thousands upon thousands of white crosses.

Verdun.

11 months of systematic butchery. A French generation wiped. A German generation annihilated.

Verdun.

All these bones. So many of them. French and German mingled. Cells filled to the roof with bones. So many of them.

So many of them.

Young men who were born at the tail end of the old century. Born in pain and hope. Babies who survived the infantile diseases. Who turned into boys, who would turn into badly needed strong young arms for the farm work.
Babies, turned into toddlers, turned into boys, turned into men. Barely.
Turned into bones. With gruesome finality.

So many of them.

So many of them.

Verdun.

One battle. In one war. In the past.

Never forget.

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So many of them

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Three brothers

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The three brothers R were all born in the house next to the cemetery, there, in the background.

And now they all rest side by side, here, in the foreground. Jean-Marie, André, Raymond.

Three lives closely entertwined, from start to finish, within a hundred yards.

Things were a lot more localised, back in the days.

This sort of thing could not happen nowadays. No way.

There is no WiFi in the old house…

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Show us your tit

Sad spectacle, that of a cold, stiff tit early in the morning.

Couldn’t stop wondering if a granite headstone isn’t just a touch extravagant for a blue tit though.

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Belly up tit

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Cross strand, Belmullet

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Neighbours

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