A Day To Live

Katahimikan

It's dark again. Pitch as black, dark as night, the color of the end. I hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing, smell nothing. I can't hear the neighs of horses, the screams of merchants, and sound of footsteps over the town of Peaeli. I'm suspended in air; in oblivion. All is gone but the space that holds me. I can't sense the putrid smell of horse manure lingering on the streets, perfumes lingering on the sidewalks, fresh produce on the stalls. I am but alone, by myself, with no company, and has less sanity intact.

"Mother."

Is this what they call death? Is this the end for everyone, is this what awaits us all? Is death just a word synonymous to eternal slumber; in the depths of the very corner of Earth? So it is. This is how we repay, then, of all that times we were ungrateful of a next day; ungrateful to have lived such life more than anyone; ungrateful to have been loved and have loved back; ungrateful for having peace. This is how we will be punished and be scolded on; by pure silence by an enigma of darkness. I'm sure of it. Having this operating brain with your whole sanity intact yet unable to move, unable to scream, unable to be alive. This is Death.

"Mother."

We see Death on the darkness every time we blink. We see Death every time the image box, television as the modern man says, turns pitch black when you change the subject from the cooking maids up to the hunting men; back south. We see Death every time we sleep. He's the one in our dreams, looking at us, staring blankly on our image. He is every character of ever gender of every species and race. They are not imagination but only Death observing you, testing your will, testing your sanity and humanity.

"MOTHER."

Death was always following me, then. How ironic of it, humans avoiding death; not wanting to see even a glimpse of Him but the thing is, we are the one seen, the one watched, the one observed. We are afraid of seeing the image so much, we can't even feel it's presence. We avoid Him, discern Him from our daily life; what a mistake. We should have been ready for Him, always. We should have greeted it at every breakfast with his own plate; played with chess every time both of you got bored; walked with him in the meadows. Why, you ask? He'd be more of a companion when he takes. You'd not be sad of leaving home with him. You'd leave your husband, your siblings, parents, and any relative to your heart. You'd leave with Him without regrets because he, too, is family.

"MOTHER!"

Jade looked very surprised of her wake. She had the look of a young woman of her age; surprised of a lover look, as the olden men say. She had beading sweat all over her face trailing from her forehead to chin. Her iris was round, of a cat wanting catnip or pleading for pleasurable petting.

"Good morning, mom. Welcome home."