Death is not a silent affair; the sobs of the living resonate above my coffin. I ponder the manner of my demise, never the timing, for each of our ends have their set dates. Is that the reason why we bring flowers to the grave, to compliment the date?
When we close our eyes at night, I know a piece of us dies, as a fragment of our essence fades, dreaming to survive into tomorrow. Perhaps those who choose suicide are merely those who forget to wake up againβlost and still trapped in the darkness, searching for the light, yet some remain forever in the dark.
Death is not a silent affair; anyone's sudden death brings the sound of tears.