Who's Gonna Hold Your Hand When You Die

Who's Gonna Hold Your Hand When You Die by Simon Birch

I rarely keep the artwork's titles but this time I cant resist. The whole series had me swooning. Our relationship with a piece of art is so much like it is with other humans, its all about chemistry,
pieces that move you, inspire you, prod some dead thing inside you into stirring, coming alive again. I don't know what it is about this artist's work that gets me so emotional. Sometimes its a reflection of an old wound, an insecurity that gets sparked by an image and makes you face some truth, an inner turmoil, you mostly avoid. This picture reminds me of how shut out I am from the world of men. No matter how close I get, how many friends or siblings I have, lovers and colleagues, and the years of interaction, every once in a while I feel like there's a glass barrier between me and the other sex, and that the closest I'll ever get, is here, nose pressed against the pane, observing, trying to guess at what it's like on the other side.

The attraction to random violence is one of these things I will never get. Reckless pursuits that may end up breaking bones and tearing limbs just for that adrelanine rush. And the anger. I have yet to meet a man who is not seething with rage once you scratch a little below the surface. The readiness for battle, every single day men soldier up and wage their own private wars; against cars on the road, the stock market, the ravages of time, and of course other men. It can't be all about the testosterone, can it?

Who's gonna hold your hand when you die? Who's gonna hold mine? Thinking about our mortality, the suddenness of death, and that eventually every strong and healthy thing, like the virility of men, must demise, brings out an insatiable thirst to a born fatalist like me. It makes me want to burn twice as brightly, love twice as hard, and live; drink in the days and the nights, and be as involved and as detached as I can be, simaltaneously. In short, this fear, this longing, makes me want to do, do, do till I am so tired I no longer fear Death touching me, no longer care about the question. But if I could save you I would, and that's what scares me the most.

"Cat Among the Pigeons"