Death,

One of the few words that make a dictionary heavy. Like truth, it follows us till we run out of excuses to avoid it. People screen themselves from the idea of death for it causes pain even when experienced in installments. We literally crawl through life with buckets on our heads. All we hear is our own sound. The heavy breaths. The occasional screams. But, death falls on us consistently. Like rainwater, perhaps. It splashes on our heads, trying to breakthrough. Trying to help us realize that it is not separate from us. In a few words if I were to describe death, I would say that it is a limit that keeps running in a direction opposite to the direction of our will. For those who seek, it makes them wait for eternity and for others who carry umbrellas over buckets, it meets them horizontally. On their face, it makes contact. I lost my grandfather on the day I turned eight. I saw him consume his final few cubic centimeter of oxygen. Ever since, I have dealt with death like no one else I have know thus far in life. Death intimidates you if you leave yourself to it's mercy. However if you face it without a raincoat, provide your bare heart and body to it, it dances around you like a bar girl. That was the last lesson my grandfather taught me. It was his final present for me. Death disturbs people who fail to see it in any form other than a full stop. It's shape is more like a wall than a dot. A wall that scales your reach and becomes a brick taller as you try to climb. Those who reach their end and wait for the wall to collapse over them are the lucky ones for they experience pain bundled with the joy of disappointing an enemy in their final battle. I happen to be one such bubble of life that has bounced off the wall and escaped steel roofs. That is, in fact, the reason why Ernest Hemingway could not have an impact on my mind.