The morning I read about the MH17 plane crash, it was a Friday. The clouds hung low and deep in morose thunder and it would have been any ordinary Friday if not for the death that hung stale and limp in the air.
Yet another disaster but different, by measures. The spectacle of the MH370 plane displaced much of the sorrow I felt because the romanticism of an unsolved mystery was, regrettably, not unlike a particular drama series. But whilst on-lookers claim insouciance or begin to rally support for blame over the MH17 crash, I, for once, am not so quick to recover.
I wish I could say that I'm not afraid of death. But I'm not totally sure how I feel about it, truthfully. Ask me again soon.
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