Thoughts on a Death
Written by
November 2012
Written by
November 2012

The fifth of November I felt strange. When I write, I usually go on until, in my mind, I have written out the idea to its core. And then I add more. I never know what the pages of ranting my thoughts will lead to--I leave that up to you, reader, to decide. Maybe a poem? A play? Or just a lovely short story? Take a moment, and take what I say with a grain of salt--my emotions are confusing and I wear them on my sleeve.


Eve Reborn

Death is effective, it completely envelops the atmosphere in the most cinematic and novelistic way that is strange to life. For life is reality, or something of it, therefore something like Death occurs and it invites such a complex to humanity. It completely envelops the atmosphere of your life in such a constant crescendo. And the conflicts never cease; and you are grateful for death.

The selfishness that made you cry is the selfish self of loss you emit to the world, and hide from. It’s beautiful, the sense of self gained from loss. You walk amid people carrying an empty void, a hollow heart, yet you know you are experiencing what others can only fathom. The day is different, yet no one knows. How can they not notice? You don’t want them to notice.

It is Death, and you are not afraid, but smiling. It is a dark bright light that makes you notice the details of a car, the sidewalk gutter, or one’s relationship. Depression enters our lives without the courtesy of a warning, and we become the parts of our self that we suppress.

It’s a comfort and a blow, for we avoid mirrors and answers to questions. The crescendo in our eyes is deafening and we revel—for we are allowed to in matters of Death.

Faced with memories, we abhor, yet stare at anyway. I hope anyone who can sympathize will understand. It is another form of shame, we live in the guilt for its our only excuse. And we take a bow and walk down another path.


The violin weeps for us, for no one else will and the only soul you want to speak to is gone. All forms of sound react to your emotions, sensitivity. Life is but a dream, and you row until you are stuck in the middle of a lake, drop you oars through the looking glass, the reflection, and scream. For only he can hear, that loved one, and can respond as your call to the heavens to join him. Time spent on this earth, the memories, oh, they are never good enough. There is always something wanting, something selfish. There will always be more that needed to be, until you learn not to regret such memories but cherish them. Tell me when you get there. Tell me how it feels.

Early mornings at coffee shops always had a light following us. That morning light. That foreshadowed death.

The picture glimmers the memory tainted by guilt and felt through death.

Oh! How the bad can be so beautifully harmonized with the good that you crave the sad, for death has made it appealing, made it apart of you.

It is like the dawning of night, but the wind of an overcast afternoon. An eerie loss, and a strange delight amid sweet nothings. It’s the realization you have to live with the bad. Live with a hollow heart.

Goodnight, Eve Reborn.

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