Everything ends
People die.
It's true. Of course we die. Nothing is for ever. Even the mountains were once born, spawned from the magma of creation. And the mountains must also bend their white head to the sand and become the sand like their father-mountains before them did.
Of course we die. There are wars. There are conflicts. There are viruses and bacteria and AIDS and guns. And there are freak-accidenst like getting a golf-ball in your head whilst reading Atlas Shrugged. Of course we die.
And yet, when death comes to us, in a vicinity we can comprehend, not war-struck Africa or plagued Southern America, but just a few miles east of us, we are totally and utterly shocked.
Agasht.
Not because we ever thought we would last forever. We know we won't. We are shocked because we now see, fully, without any room for doubt, that death is a sporadic bitch. Death wears a pink bolero and she has nice boobs. She keeps men uneasy because she has no plan, no agenda, no set of motion they can ever fathom, and she scares the shit out of women because they know the danger of someone on a tune that no one else can relate to.
Death comes. Planless. Not on a schedule. Not with a calender or a watch.
She takes the life of a young man falling of a balchony, suddenly, devistatingly.
Did this young man help her? Did he give her a hand to ensure his own end?
He might have.
We will never know. As well as we will never know him.
Probably, weighing the simpleness of mere statistics, he would have been a very uninteresting sort of person. Boring or childish. But that changes nothing.
The frailty of our lives, that we are simple goose eggs with legs, cracked and ripped to pieces as easily as the touch of death's pink nails is an important lesson.
So if you ever see a woman with a pink bolero, looking up, looking down...
RUN FOR YOUR LIFE
It's true. Of course we die. Nothing is for ever. Even the mountains were once born, spawned from the magma of creation. And the mountains must also bend their white head to the sand and become the sand like their father-mountains before them did.
Of course we die. There are wars. There are conflicts. There are viruses and bacteria and AIDS and guns. And there are freak-accidenst like getting a golf-ball in your head whilst reading Atlas Shrugged. Of course we die.
And yet, when death comes to us, in a vicinity we can comprehend, not war-struck Africa or plagued Southern America, but just a few miles east of us, we are totally and utterly shocked.
Agasht.
Not because we ever thought we would last forever. We know we won't. We are shocked because we now see, fully, without any room for doubt, that death is a sporadic bitch. Death wears a pink bolero and she has nice boobs. She keeps men uneasy because she has no plan, no agenda, no set of motion they can ever fathom, and she scares the shit out of women because they know the danger of someone on a tune that no one else can relate to.
Death comes. Planless. Not on a schedule. Not with a calender or a watch.
She takes the life of a young man falling of a balchony, suddenly, devistatingly.
Did this young man help her? Did he give her a hand to ensure his own end?
He might have.
We will never know. As well as we will never know him.
Probably, weighing the simpleness of mere statistics, he would have been a very uninteresting sort of person. Boring or childish. But that changes nothing.
The frailty of our lives, that we are simple goose eggs with legs, cracked and ripped to pieces as easily as the touch of death's pink nails is an important lesson.
So if you ever see a woman with a pink bolero, looking up, looking down...
RUN FOR YOUR LIFE
posted by Alexander at 4:43 AM
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