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The Death of Immortality

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The Joys of youth end here. All of your happiness submits to the overpowering emotion of sorrow hanging in the air, corrupting any potential positive thought that surfaces in your mind. You shift uncomfortably in your suit and wonder why you’re here, wonder what cruel force brought you to this gallery of perpetual grief. The world around you which appears engulfed in a black blur grieves and you stand there confused, scared and worst of all utterly alone among the shifting blurs moving around you.
This isn’t your place in the world and you know this, dread this in fact but yet, your mind conquers the unpleasant image of your body lying still, breathless and without a hint of life imprisoned in that wooden chamber waiting for us all at the end of our run that currently occupies someone that unfortunately outlived her place in this world. You feel the cold trickle of something running down your cheek and you realize you’re crying. In a desperate attempt, you try to hold back the tears but in the end, it consumes you. Soon you are helpless to the blooding woe streaming down your face. Within this fit of misery your illusion of immortality fades forever. Death which once felt so distant now, seems as if it stands over you with a grin and a whisper of your evitable future.

Why, these questions vibrant through your mind, why why, please just tell me, why. With each tear, the question seems louder and more desperate. It threatens to overtake you until a foreign voice answers from afar, because it happens to everyone, its part of life and one day, hopefully in many years you will have to experience it.

Upon this, the tears retreat, you wipe away the few that stain your face and your feet begin moving on their own, although, to you it feels as if you’re floating. The next thing you know you’re standing in front of an aged, familiar man with his face buried in his hands. He hears your approach and looks up at you. With one look from those glassy, vacant eyes they fill you with a conquering sensation of pity. Those cliché, barren words fall out,
“I’m sorry for your loss.”

You know they hang hollow but still you feel obligated to say something, anything in a vain endeavor to break the dismay. Despite its futility, you see a sparkle of life enter those wounded eyes. It always helps to rekindle your own dwindling spirit to hear the words,
“Thank you.” And that though passes through your head like a bullet; I never want to die…





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