Death and Birth:
The morning sun fell upon the now flowering blossoms of the several oaks, all spread across a beautiful pond. He was reading the papers, listing all the news on one page, hoping to find inspiration for his book. Yes, he had grown old, for the blossoms weren’t new, the wind found an old friend in him and the water saw him as woe, analyzing the wrinkles formed across his face, for it expected little pieces of bread, which were thrown into it as if it were rocks. Several ducks would swim around it, picking with their beaks, attempting to snatch the piece before the others would.
He enjoyed this sight but had forgotten a piece of bread. The drakes were watching him with their green eyes, submerging their beak softly into their feather, but still aware of the stranger’s gaze. He closed the papers, folded it and laid it on the wooden bench. It was dark oak, if a pensioned timber was to be believed, attached with several nails to a white metal, seeing it from a distance it’d be as Victorian as Charles Dickens himself. Of course, these days, placing this seat in a park in New York made it seem out of place. This group, all benches being placed a few feet from each other, seemed quite modern, apart from this one.
It was the odd one out, the black chicken amongst the white, a sapling amongst its superiors. One could only reckon what the sea of time, crushing its wild, salty, and old waves against the shores of every mortal man or woman, would do with this one. He touched the cold iron, the sadness and sorrow of time touching his bare finger, softly peeling its skin further and further off, revealing white bones. He immediately released the steel from its burden, yet his finger staid pure bone.
Twisting his hand, he gazed at it, almost afraid to say anything. “How’s this possible?”, he murmured, not hearable for his voice had been silenced by the soft splash of water, created by the fowl submerging themselves with the dark abyss, which the water ultimately was.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, a man wearing dark robes appeared in front of him and was holding his scythe in his bare bony hands. “Come, for I’ll lead you through the portal, dividing this world with many others.” Death offered its hands, but the man wanted to stay. His consciousness reaching out to the pure nerves in his hands, trying to convince them for the sake of his life, yet they wouldn’t listen. The hand stretched out, accepting both hands and the man stood up. Aware that he’d abandoned his dead corpse, he was shocked, and fear crept into his veins, freezing the flowing blood.
The once so bright sun, touching the long dead skin softly, was covered by a large blanket, imprisoning the earth in a dark shadow, announcing the final judgment, the riders of Apocalypse smoothening the road for Satan, if the Bible was to be believed. Never, he had been afraid, yet so comforted. Never, he looked at the sunset, and thought that following a skeleton would be safe. “Never has become ever, impossible possible, for the final judgment has been announced. Soon, comfort shall be discomfort and change vice versa until the end of time, how long that may be. Forever shall be soon, the future shall be the past and the present shall be killed, for time is abandoned. Death shall be birth, and birth shall be death. The latter brings sorrow, the other relief. Praise yourself, you’ve been chosen. Feel relieved, for paradise awaits thee.”
To die, or not to die, that’s the question; whether it’s nobler to suffer the burdens of life, then opposing them and by doing so, end them. He had read a lot of Shakespeare, giving him enough inspiration to soliloquy for the next hour. Yet, he fell that it’d be done tomorrow, tomorrow, when he takes a nap, perchance he will dream. He found a little paper in his pocket, reading the curly letters written upon it. It was a shop list, all the necessary food. Apples, he hadn’t eaten that, yet it was his favorite food. Why, o why, did he need to die right now? When shall he taste the sweet flavor of it, his preferred dishes would probably never be fed to him again? Well, he appreciated the 70 years of acting out his ego, for he knew that he had been a burden for everyone around him, reassuring his friendship to everyone he held dear, yet he still would miss them after this. Death calls it paradise, a better one would be a paradise lost, lost in the sorrow and sadness of everyone that knew those that disappeared. If this was heaven, how bad would hell be? It’d be a mix of intense emotions, combined and mixed as if a smoothie, until one couldn’t bear it anymore. The fires that priests warned about weren’t yellow nor burning, they were the emotions, burning down your philosophy, making you realize that there isn’t anything apart from this life.
The ground was leaving his feet, the little ducks still in the water, enjoying their lives and playing with the water. Oh, what he shall miss life, for he felt homesick, even though he hadn’t left yet. He looked at the sky, ready for the next stage. He flew, higher the height the faster his velocity. The robe didn’t look at him, ignoring his pondering, for he was convinced the man had psychic abilities.
The darkness grew, eating the ducks with feather and all, even the beautiful skyscrapers that kissed the sky, hugging the clouds. They flew higher and higher, the man closed his eyes, accepting his death. It didn’t hurt, at least that prohibited him from having any regret about what he had done.
Now, the sleep will begin that will last forever, yet not for a moment, the sleep that will end in the future, yet has already ended, this long night, created by the soft yet hard realization of sleep, shall announce itself with the first bright light of a full moon, carried away by the dreams and wishes of certain playwrights, and the last light of the moon, despised by all but one, loved by all but one; all the contradictions spined around and around, yet it didn’t cause chaos, for the harmony caused discord yet again, the often fantasized globes that contradictions are, stood still, it’s main point of existence, which was only there to let the spheres turn around itself, disappeared in the chaos and harmony of light and dark, fighting an everlasting battle; the man was certain of the chaos, hoping for restoration by some divinity, with absolute power of everything that was and will be, but knew that it wouldn’t come, yet the impossible was possible and the chaos was harmony, the man existing out of bones had said that, it all became so confusing to him, everything that once was, is and shall be, increasing and decreasing before his own eyes, but it didn’t attack nor oppose him, it didn’t fill his mind with articulated and fake joy or eagerly awaiting anger, the seeds already present deep inside his heart and mind; he knew that it didn’t make any sense, so he waited for the end, or the beginning, if you want it your way.
What happened, didn’t happen, existent matter became inexistent, and darkness became enlightened and vice versa. Welcome, he was, yet he wasn’t, his conscious slipped away, yet it didn’t, what once a contradiction was, ironically was contradicted itself.