In memory of a stranger

I fear death. I avoid the thought of death. The murmurs of death always bring a certain amount of closeness. I want to be with the people I love, I want to spend time with the material things I possess, I want to get away from the things that disturb me, I want to be in tranquility with the basic elements that give me solace.

I know I cannot escape the death of life, the death of relationships, the death of profession, the death of dreams, the death of hope. No amount of literature telling death is God’s touch of honor or the gateway to eternity has ever made me comfortable with the concept of this fatality.

The distress is not one of loss or pain but one of emptiness; it is one of not being able to understand life’s fundamental purpose. Why are we here? Is it material pursuits? Money? Love? Fame?

But, every news of death reminds me that I am living on borrowed time.