The fear comes before the knock. In the space where breath forgets itself. In the knowing that we don’t know what we know we shouldn’t know. The mystery behind the last door on the last hallway of the last dream.
Death is the riddle every mind hums under its pillow. Every culture scribbles the same wrong answer in different colors. Paradise, punishment, reincarnation, oblivion…one truth wearing many masks and no man can wear one mask to himself and another to the multitude without finally getting bewildered as to which one may be true.
We whisper about it. Giggle. Pretending our bones aren’t counting down behind our skin. But everyone hears the ticking. Tick. Tick. Tickticktick.
Mortals race the clock because the clock is racing them. They paint to be remembered. They love to leave fingerprints. They build monuments so the dust has to climb over them politely.
But imagine, stretch it out, imagine forever. Forever-ever-never-ending-ever.
No stakes. No endings. No shadows to shape the light. Just a long, long corridor with no doors and no windows and the wallpaper starts whispering your name.
Immortality is not a gift. It is a loop. A curse that folds time so many times it tears.
Without death, life is flavorless soup. Lukewarm, eternal, and judging you.
Death is the silent sculptor. Carving meaning by threatening to take it away. Shadow paints the sun. Silence gives the music teeth.
Don’t love death. Don’t hate death. Just bow when she passes. She is the only queen whose crown fits everyone… eventually.
