Death is everywhere; the light dies everyday. The flowers and leaves die every year and return when the sun is warm and the rain is plenty. Flowers do no bloom waiting for Death. Flowers reach upwards to illuminate and fade gracefully in a form of acceptance and natural order. They do not know they will return, they know they will bloom. We are cursed. We are doomed to questioned everything, question our mortality, and futilely, resist it. Many of us do not bloom and flourish to brighten someone’s moment, or brighten a world collectively. Our bees do not take knowledge and wisdom, rather, they are burdened to haul and spread fear and uncertainty. All this, in the name of Death.
We are ultimately consumed by nothing. We are chewed over and pulverized by emptiness that is that absence of life, all while filling ourselves with superficial distractions presented in the form of screens and social expectations. How ludicrous that we fear what we do not know, when we know things before us can be beautiful, and we can create artistry out of that nothing we so fear? How wasteful to spend time calculating our own expiration dates like milk, instead of living in the present, viewing those within our lines of vision?
Alternatively, it isn’t Death who should be feared. If anything, it is the uncertainty of what happens after the act of dying. So many of us pray and give thanks and are gracious to a creator who promises salvation for living a righteous existence, because we are incapable of reasoning that there might be nothingness beyond the time when our eyes close for a final sleep, and we resist the notion that maybe, just maybe, we are passed on to the world as a “thank you” for allowing us to create a life among it. We are constantly searching for a well to drink from rather than dipping into our own and creating with it enough substance to forget about the nothing, to not anticipate Death, to expect love rather than the fears of the unknown.
We crave control. We used to crave control of the tangible and everything is so expensive that we now desire to master the things we can’t readily touch, and create lives where others see only what we want them to see. We ache and writhe inside when we cannot manipulate each other. We want the reigns, the heroism, the breadth of immortality where something of us will be left behind. What good is it, though, if there is no one to leave our memories with? How much will we blindly destroy in order to feel empowered, instead of dipping into our own wells and using them to create? All this, of course, in the fear of Death.