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 wait for our awareness.

It marches with no remorse.

It does not turn around when someone falls.

Seconds become minutes,

minutes become hours,

hours vanish into years.

Even after death, time does not grieve.

It continues.

Even when the world burns to ash,

time will hum softly in the ruins.

And we 

we are offered the illusion of choice:

Waste time.

Or spend it.

But in the end, it all evaporates the same.

Before death, there is life.

Yes.

We are alive at least that is the word for this condition.

We speak. We taste.

We remember warmth, or cruelty.

We hold hands, only to lose them.

We attach ourselves to others,

build little worlds of meaning.

All of it built on unstable ground.

And yet…

the greatest cruelty is not our death,

but theirs.

The ones we love.

Their departure leaves a void that mocks us.

Their absence becomes a permanent presence 

a ghost not of form,

but of silence.

Life is given to us without consent.

We are born.

We adjust.

We cope.

We wonder if there was a choice we missed,

a question we failed to ask.

And then -

we begin to vanish.

I often wonder why there is death at all.

Was it part of the original design?

Or a glitch that became law?

And if we are to disappear,

then why does life insist on such vividness?

Why do we fall in love?

Why do we suffer over things we cannot keep?

Is death the end?

Or merely another transformation?

Some speak of heavens, of hells.

Of reincarnations.

Of endless cycles or final darkness.

But these are stories we whisper to ourselves

because the truth ...

the actual truth 

does not answer us.

Perhaps we do not get answers.

Perhaps that is the answer.

And so I live,

as one inside a corridor with no map,

walking toward an end I cannot see,

in a system I did not choose,

but must endure.

The afterlife?

Still a question.

Still unanswered.

And the silence grows louder.