Death is inevitable.
This much is certain. There is a silence beneath everything that grows, a stillness waiting to reclaim what it once relinquished. One lives, and in living, begins to vanish . Dying - that peculiar fear embedded in us like a splinter under the skin. We do not speak of it often, though it governs our days. It is not the event that terrifies, but the absence. To be - and then not. To exist with memory, sensation, voice and then to be reduced to… nothing. A name, a photograph, a smell clinging to someone’s coat. It does not matter how we resist. It comes, not out of cruelty, but out of something more mechanical. Indifferent. Incomprehensible. Like a bureaucratic system that never explains itself. And what is worse we are so entangled in the minutiae of daily life that we forget: we are temporary. In the middle of conversation, in the middle of a sip of coffee, in the middle of existing the machinery can stop. Without warning. Perhaps even now. Time does not wai...