Houses I find are commonly haunted by the memory of the dead, men however are more often than not haunted by the memory of the living.
In living a man can only die once. In loving however, the same cannot be said.
It doesn’t take a brave man to die, death is certain, a thing promised since the first breaths were drawn, its life that is the uncertain thing, it takes a brave man to live, the courage to face the unknown.
I don’t know why some still regard the idea of a decent living wage as radical and revolutionary. It doesn’t take a socialist or communist to realize that if an employer is taking a huge chunk out of someone’s day, the least they should compensate them in a such way that makes the rest of it at least tolerable.
Sometimes we find ourselves not mourning of the dead, that grief is easier. No, mourning the loss of the living, the people that left despite them not departing this world.