Death. It is inevitable. It is a permanent curse on humankind. It is cruel, merciless and strikes whomever it wishes to, whenever it pleases to, however it wants to. Death is cold, colder than the coldest ice burried deep in fifteen wild, bitter Decembers. Its fiery coldness burns and numbs, according you harsh rainstorms of fire and ice that hacks through your heart like a brand new axe fells a tree. And the resulting pain takes you to the perilous depths of grief untold. And blackness. And emptiness. And tears. Tears too salty that corrode your sad, sad eyes, transforming them into unsightly, broken windows of your shattered soul. Death hurts. It leaves aches in its unforgiving wake. And horror. And fear. Then hopelessness and void spaces. Deathly silence haunts you as the air is filled with the pungent smell of hurt and pain. The shadow of your torn spirit lurks behind tearful, graveyard prayers as you indulge in a feast of sorrow in a vaccum of bereavement. The strong, crying winds cut through your skin turning you into a votary of your own blood and torture. You do not care anymore. Achlys and Algea have won in such sweet, rustic, unsweated victory. The grim reaper never loses. Death is a sudden, unexpected visitor without shame. Death paid my brother a visit this morning and took him where it holds my father and mother captive. My soul is torn by unbearable torment. But this is a road I know too well, for I have travelled this same route several times before. The familiarity is nothing but comforting, for what else can one do? Nothing. Life is fragile. Be grateful for yours No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow. ~Euripides
Posted on: Sun, 25 May 2014 16:19:07 +0000
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