The Death to Life Dialogs: Speaking of Death

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist There is a hunger in the center of the chest There is a passage through the darkness and the mist And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest

James Taylor

Shed A Little Light

 

“The stench of death hangs over us from birth to grave,” said the old man.

“And beyond,” said the young skeptic.

“And beyond?” the old man asked.

The skeptic smirked and was silent.

“No, not beyond,” the old man said. “The rarefied air of heaven is clear and clean and sweet.”

The skeptic smirked and remained silent.

“The stench of death cannot invade the heavenly places. It’s not that death is not remembered; it’s that it’s no longer important.”

“No longer important?” The skeptic was aroused from his smirking slumber.  “Why, then do we so strive to ignore it?” The skeptic’s eyes became tinged with anger. “Death is the crime of crimes,” he said, then spat on the ground. “It is most definitely a curse. The stench is simply a reminder, a most morbid reminder. You of all people should know that, as close as you stand to it.”

The old man now smiled. “A curse?” he asked. “I thought you didn’t believe in curses.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“But your anger is real?”

“Yes, it is real.”

“And you are affronted by the smell of death?”

“Who isn’t?”

“Then you are most assuredly affected by the very curse in which you don’t believe.” The old man moved closer to the skeptic and spoke in a whisper. “A figure of speech does not arouse such passion.”

“Why do we allow ourselves to speak like this?” asked the skeptic. “There is much beauty to be taken in. Why must I be forced to attend to such ugliness?”

“So you wish once more to ignore it, by attempting to deny death’s importance?”

“Of course,” said the skeptic. “But you are in error old man: It’s by ignoring future ugliness that I attest to its importance now.  It is by attending to beauty now that I laugh in the face of death before that criminal act is perpetrated upon me. I steal beauty from ugliness. I steal life from death.”

The old man laughed. “You, my son, are a fool. There is no escape. Life is given to you. Death takes life. You may choose to ignore death, you may cover the stench of death with roses or lilies, but even the flowers lose their scent and death still overtakes you. You cannot ignore it. That is not allowed!”

“You, old man, are embittered by what you think you’ve lost. I am in no such position!”

“You are hanging on a twisted thread over that position as we speak,” said the old man. “Please remember—as I said before—the stench of death hangs over us from birth to grave.”

The skeptic started then slumped. Despondency crept over him. His face twitched as his skin crawled. The skeptic arose wearily to his feet. “To be aware like this is to be already dead,” he said. He began to limp away.

“Please, stop,” said the old man. “I’ve upset you and for that I am truly sorry. Please oblige me in my old age and sit next to me. Allow me to tell you a story.”