I registered to become an organ donor because it seems like a good idea. It seems like this is one of those things you can do and feel like ‘I am an adult now’. It was easy, I just filled out a form online. There is an added benefit in that it somewhat assuages my fear of dying. I am ok with the idea of my consciousness ending. I am ok with the idea of spending the rest of eternity in hell or eternal recurrence. The idea of my physical body disintegrating, decomposing in a slow process to turn back into dirt both comforts and terrifies me. The idea of my heart beating in someone else’s chest after I am dead makes me feel safe. I checked every box except for donating my eye tissue. I know that people probably really need eye tissue, and I feel bad. I don’t like the idea of someone having my eyes. Them seeing the world through my eyes is kind of cool. Seeing is important. I love being able to see the world. But my eyes feel very personal. These squishy balls of fluid windows to the soul whatever. It is more about someone looking into the miraculously no longer blind person’s eyes and my pupils staring back that scares me. I don’t even know if that’s how it works.
Postcard from the 21st century:
I keep finding new bits of innocence to lose.
Tonight, it was seeing performers from Australia’s only same-sex ballroom dancing studio. I cried watching them, because I’d never before realised how many lovers danced in their living rooms, but were still afraid to dance out of them.