I don’t know what’s worse. Watching your daughter, the one you cared for and loved for half your lifetime, die right before you or gaze down from heaven and see the suffering they endure when they see the person who cared and loved them fall before them. Tragedy, with its capricious and abstruse character, works in different ways making it an iconoclast beyond understanding. It’s idiosyncrasy: Watching balefully as it tears down the limitations of the human body and laughing mercilessly as the effusive tears of their loved ones flow down in rivers, breaking the hermetic seal that blocks the egress of pent-up emotion. It’s like a slap on the cheek; you never see it coming when it just....happens. It would creep up behind, give you a sheer sense of dread, and then you’d be gone. Gone into the bastion of heaven and eternal peace with only a simple cross, containing no aesthetic qualities whatsoever, standing in your place here on Earth. Ironic, isn’t it? How is it that a simple symbol of two perpendicular lines can stand in for the deleterious disaster that washed away your life, your aspirations, and your procrastinations as an individual? How is it that people so easily forget us and whose only proof that we are no longer present is that cross in the dirt? Some people call the cross a symbol of faith, but how can it be? People died on them, imbued and mottled themselves with their own blood as they were crucified. It’s true what they say: “X” marks the spot. In this case, the mark of death.
Mr. Tragedy. What an ebullient being so filled with fatuous pride and choleric spirit. It’s enough to kill off every human being, little by little. But why no one is able to control and edify this being, we will never know. No matter how much we decry its motives and belabor on its horrible deeds, it always wins in the end and leaves us in utter lassitude.