I realized recently that I am afraid of death. Not in the “I hope it doesn’t hurt and I hope there’s a heaven” kind of way, but in the “I hope I die doing what I love, with loved ones around me” kind of way.

In the last few months, my Grandmother fell ill and lost the use of her legs. She is living in a home and also recently broke her hip so her will to live is pretty much gone. She is ready to go, she says it constantly, and its heart breaking to me that at 95 years of life THIS is what you fucking get. You get to lay in a hospital bed, hoping someone remembers to call you or maybe even stop by, knowing that the longer you’re there the less likely people will visit. 

Anyways, I know there is worse things, but this is something that has been eating at me a lot recently.

As we have been cleaning her house out and getting it ready to sell, I have been sorting out her closets. I never knew how artistic and talented my grandmother is, and the more I go through her things the better I get to know her. I see so much of myself in her.

I am working at putting together an exhibition of her clothes, I feel really inspired again for the first time in ages.