Anyone who pays any attention knows this: Every day is filled with tragedy, somewhere. We go on here, as everyone else does, because what else are we to do?
I think at some genetically encoded level we know death as well as we know anything. We repress the experience, we fight it, but we know it in our marrow. And we go on with our lives anyway, even when death intrudes in some particularly horrific and incomprehensible way, because in an unthinking way we’re geared to survive.
Enjoyment of our survival is tinged with guilt on days like yesterday and today, as unreasoning as that is. Still, we forge on, because every living thing is driven to do so, even living things as self-destructive as we are, with our giant, toxic, and beautiful brains.