Death.

Such a taboo. Something we never talk about, if it can be helped. Euphemism for the holy silence. 

I suppose no one is actually afraid of death. Just that no one wants to be there when it happens. 

And why not. Change is always .. disturbing. Even good change.

With the growing emphasis on The Individual, the pressure to leave a mark, be someone, do something is here to stay. And to leave without accomplishing any of that – terribly lowering, isn’t it?

And then the grief. Not the one that’s mired in anger and fear. But the one that comes after. The deep grief of abandonment. Of the loss of hope. Not just of what one wanted but what can never be. Ever. 

Religion – and accompanying rituals. Cultural platitudes. The dogma of what is correct and what isn’t. Discourses on the soul. Of journeys beyond. They all gloss over the fact that grief is a terribly private affair. That death leaves an emptiness unless we anticipate it. And sometimes, even then.

Grief – not pretty. Not the wailing or the endless streams of tears. But the blackness of empty eyes. The hollowness of being. Yes – that is intensely personal. It is easier to shed tears than to face the void. And so, when unshed tears are encountered, it is unnatural. Unfeeling. Just not done to not show grief in the woefully inadequate language that society understands.

Death. Talk about it. Think about it. And if you have the courage, look it in the eye. That will leave your loved ones less bereft.

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