Friday, 6 December 2013
THE DUES OF DEATH.
What grief, anger, regret, guilt, pain or fear. Sincerely what should our emotions depict when death occurs, when love ones pass on. Or should we just be as life must go on.
When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you. Death remains our first and foremost enemy and it lives within us, as our chief enemy is our own unruly nature and the dark forces put up within us.
Obviously our task on earth is to fulfil the responsibilities in preparation for a one way journey. As adventurers, even for goodness sake, if there is a destination for this karma fateful journey, we will only discover so at the very point our tombs stop rolling. Death is a must but what legacy must it leave behind.
Is it worth the anger, the pain, the regret, the guilt or the grieve. However humanity must eminently be appended by the imminent autograph of the angel of death. A considerable percentage of the people we meet on the street are people who are empty inside, that is, they are actually already dead. It is fortunate for us that we do not see and do not know it. If we knew what number of people are actually dead and what number of these dead people govern our lives, we should go mad with horror.
Why do we spend years using up our bodies to nurture our minds with experience and find our minds turning then to our exhausted bodies for solace?
The ways and conditions through which people salute death dignifies the virtuoso of long lasting virtuality, a mutilated carcass, horrendously left over and behind, unbearably to view or simply, more or less, not much altered motionless soul transporter left approachable to kiss and touch. Far from easy fetch, how and when people die remains enigmatically a mystified epic, perhaps this final choice has to be taken away from men by the creator and meanly hidden as well as unannounced for it's perfect tragically traumatic effects. Truly grieving would have been less dramatic and much less effective, if men could choose when and how to approach death, somehow, the most neglected aspect of life is the most dangerous.
Neither the sun nor death can be looked at with a steady eye and so be it for he that dies pays all his debts.
In nature there is nothing like melancholy.
But some weird wandering thought, when a person's heart is pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper or neglected love,
Then grieve or guilt engulfs the mind and the body.
Death heaps motionless pressure on people left behind to endure the lasting spectacle of cessation of loved ones, else to some a poignant relieve. Death resurrects a lust of emotions exceeding the redemption of humanity, a phenomenal proof of failure to our biggest question, unsolved and effortlessly unexplored, death?
Would you learn the secrets of death? Only those who brave its dangers, comprehend its mystery!
Yet our dead loved ones still live for us and bid us think of life, not death, of life to which in their youth they lent the passion and glory of Spring. As we listen, the great chorus of life and joy begins again, and amid the awful orchestra of seen and unseen powers and destinies of good and evil, our trumpets, sound once more a note of daring, hope, and will.