What is Death?

It is the one thing we all have in common, the prize for being slaves to time. I know no art or heart, only words and words alone—empty, meaningless vocabulary crying out and withering in pain. The question that haunts me at this late hour is appalling: death is neither a beginning nor an end. Don’t we all die, but why? Why do we always question death? Is it life that accompanies death, or is death the consequence of life?

I ponder aimlessly, finding neither answers nor the courage to seek them out. This burgeoning, evil bastard does not acknowledge our existence. Did we have a choice in birth, or do we have a choice in death? What have life and death come to? Some deaths kill us from within, and some deaths heal us. The deaths of others often end up killing us from the inside, yet the death of oneself is the one and only thing that heals. This futile state—this choice less, senseless phase called existence—seems meaningless.

What is death? Who gets to decide death? Is death the only solution for this monstrous world? And yet, I can only ponder.

Nihilism lives in times of sorrow, and often it is I who sows the seeds of sorrow. There is no life beyond death, just as there was no life before birth. This fleeting moment is all that remains, and yet I dwell on death in this fragile, transient time. I know it’s not okay, but should I smear my face with laughter as tears and anxiety play out in my eyes? If there is an entity that chooses life and death, it must be the epitome of sadistic cruelty—an expression of pure evil. Otherwise, perhaps we are merely random beings living a predetermined life with a known end. You and I are nothing; you and I are the same.

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Rest in Peace, Aparna!