Birth, life, death. It is inevitable. The circle we all know. Some accept, and some, fixated, rage against the ultimate end. Two tiny points on a line, the first known and celebrated, the other full of mystery and conjecture.
The space they occupy is minuscule compared to what lies between, what defines those who are remembered. Some do much with little. Some do nothing with more than they deserve.
My time feared death. Conservative and careful. Each move measured, calculated to cheat Death. Others took crazy risks, scaled mountains, ran rapids, dared Death to come for them. Death sometimes took one who was too bold, but more often they cheered with exuberance, giddy, exhilarated and joyful. Feelings I would never know. Those Death took were exalted, praised and became legend. Their stories told and retold for generations, for millennium.
I sneered at their foolishness until the day Death came to my door. I pleaded with Death, begged for more. Death paused. More? I nodded yes. But you are already dead, was Death reply. No one attended my funeral, no one seemed to notice. Angels only weep for those who lived.
Keep on Writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer