The word is death. The word means life. The word only has meaning to the living.
I am mildly surprised at how often I am back at this sentiment, like a story that never fails to deliver the drama… the drama, the humble glory and wonder of life
Of the Living
of dying
of how even in dying there is a final utterance of living
for only the living can die, it is their privilege, their birthright, their compulsory duty
it is the final act of submission to the grand order of the cosmos
all the more reason why living seems so miraculous
so full of wildness and color
so much about the perpetuation of the self
the propagation of timeless principles
so much about furthering … this … that . .. the other thing … about putting one foot in front of the other in some kind of orderly and purposeful way
and we do it as though having a purpose would absolve us of the fear
of the onus
of the obligation
to die
it separates us, grounds us in the moment, quells the instinctive way our spirit recoils from the spectre of an infinite and eternal unknown
I imagine a sail
tied tightly to