If I could befriend Death, perhaps, I would not be cruelly shocked when my card is played. I would smile knowingly at the cold touch, and not shiver. Time to fetch your coat and fade into tomorrow. I would drink the poison cheerfully because it is offered by a friend who loves me. A consuming love that whittles down flesh and bones. Bound to meet, so why don’t we dine at noon? Observe how things are done, how the life breath leaves - like a soft breeze or a sudden gust. Rendezvous in a mausoleum as grand as the Taj Mahal to watch the plundering nature of time. Don’t be surprised by thieves if you chose to adorn your walls with precious stones. I nod in agreement, eyes unflinched. Death is never wrong; never right. Moths are bound to find the light running through living veins in an entropic universe. Nibble at fatalistic ideals; sip on recurring nightmares; keep watch over dead friends; dance in empty coffins; meditate on every apoptotic cell; listen for tiny telomeric tears. Practice the art of dying until I am impervious to the cold, indifferent to the dark, hypnotized by disappearing feet walking through graveyard mist. You need to look past the Sol to the supermassive black hole. Isn’t that where we’re all headed?
And yet, I am never prepared.
Homo sapien:
evolved to survive-
to live.
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