Is death a flavor, a spice to living? If it is a spice, it is one that comes with a sense of fear, chili perhaps. It is the spice that inspires us to do the things we want to do–before it is too late. Have the big art show. Write the novel. Sail around the world. Go to Burning Man.
I see the fear. I see the goal. Do not let the fear consume the goal. Do not let the fear consume.
If death is a spice, what does its bottle look like? Dark? Dusty, skull and bones? Or filled with light brighter than the eye can see. Angel of deliverance. Angel of deliverance. Suffering’s end.
Where do we go? My uncle died and visited my father. They talked for hours. “How are you here?” my father asked.
“I am everywhere,” my uncle replied.
He is now particles, dispersed–everything suspended in the dust that blows around the earth. Free from suffering. Free form existence.
Distracted, my eye wanders to the bubbles in the glass, levitating to their death. The short life of a bubble in a carbonated beverage.
Somewhere someone is allergic to wheat. Someone’s a gravedigger in a small town. Someone young has leukemia. Someone is dying, their particles beginning to disperse. Quickly, we must remember why we are here. Before it’s too late. Before we go somewhere, nowhere, anywhere.
I don’t mind talking about death–however, staying there may be too much for too long.
How do we keep death at bay? We sing. We dance. We create to combat its unmaking. We must make, make merry.
The star that won’t be dimmed.
What are we?
Part bone, part hair, part flesh, part soul, part laugh, part cry, part stone, part ocean, part mountain, part sky.