I have a small gypsum skull on my desk that I keep as a reminder that I am not immortal—I've had it for years. It's a little dirty—sometimes I pick it up and roll it around in my hand. It reminds me that if I have things that I want to do, I should make sure that I do them in this lifetime, before I end up looking too much like my little keepsake
A visit to the "bones" exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, along with the recent death of a casual acquaintance, has set my thoughts morbid.
We all leave things behind when we go, even if it's just a mess to clean up.
But there are different kinds of messes. And sometimes the bones tell a story.
This woman lost her life to cancer. I remember taking a course in clinical psychology and listening to an interview with a patient who believed there was a worm in his head eating his mind—not his brain, his mind. It was a terrifying concept.
This jolly-looking fellow to the right suffered from syphillis—and probably lost his mind, his brain being drilled to bits by curly little worms. Nietsche suffered from syphillis, but I don't think this is Nietsche.
I'm sure you've heard the expression,
«I need that like I need another hole in the head!»
Yup, well, this is what that looks like.
This poor bloke took a shotgun blast to the face. The lead is still embedded in the bone.
At least everybody above had time for a story—a history. I don't know the history behind this little guy, only that he died before he was able to sprout teeth. That doesn't seem fair.
But death is democratic—everybody gets a turn.
There's no escaping it.