A Thought on Death

Perhaps, too often, the tragedies of the past give color to the tragedies unforeseen. What fed the woes of yesterday but only feeds the sorrows of tomorrow, and we find ourselves struggling to stay afloat the turbulent flow of our own misfortunes. . We become a product of our own making: the mind, which, in its initial plan of creating the beautiful, suddenly takes a curious pleasure in manufacturing the ugly, and, sooner than expected, or rather, sooner than we had planned, we completely fall apart. The soul becomes poisoned, the mind polluted, and the body gets irreversibly corrupted. such tragedies are more bitter than the gall that emanates from hearts broken by love. As the spirit descends from the original ideals of perfection and goodness, the body rapidly declines in its ideals of health and beauty. We become monsters in our hearts, and our physicality evolves to the grotesqueness of the hideous subspecies that lurk the ocean deep. The color of life subtly gets greyed over by the morbidity of death.

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