I admit that I am thinking of death a little too often these days. Eons ago, I associate it with the image of a hooded figure carrying an awfully huge scythe, of worms eating the flesh away, of darkness in the grave, of the Angels that are supposed to punish the sinner. Eons ago, I was afraid of it.

Perhaps it is the love of life that scare us from the embrace of the eternal sleep. We are too accustomed with waking after a several hours of deep slumber. Perhaps, too, it is our religious beliefs of the Afterlife. The three major religions of the world (Judaism,Islam and Christianity) all taught us about heaven and hell. Our mortal flesh cannot deny the filth of its sins and so comes the uncertainty about where we are headed--to salvation or damnation. But the bigger uncertainty is the thought that what if there is no life after death. After we are decomposed down to our elemental composition, then we cease to exist as whoever we were.

It is indeed very much like sleep, when we surrender to its grip, we don't really know what we will dream about nor whether we will dream at all.

There are those instances when our waking hours are saturated by pain. There are those waking hours when at the end of a long journey, we are tired beyond imaginable. I thought to myself, indeed life and death are like wakefulness and sleep. Sometimes, we are just too tired of everything that we long to curl up in bed and give everything to the hands of Fate. And sleep away into the unknown.

In this simplistic idea of death, dying becomes less terrifying. Death becomes more inviting. Like a blanket thrown over our shoulders when it's cold. Like a quaint cafe along the cobblestone streets of Paris. Like the warmth of the cup of creamy cappuccino. The smell of it. Silky and rich. Like an embrace.


I am drowsy. Very drowsy.