Dying happens to everyone. To some, too early, to others, far too late. Some die like the color of red leaves against a dark blue sky and others like the very first rising of the moon. There is no reason for this. It happens with no rhythm and no carefully placed rhymes, for dying is not a poem. It is poetic, yes, but it is not a poem.
Some believe we die because it's in our fate, in the plan that God carefully crafted before he even crafted us. Maybe he felt it like the crash of a meteor, or maybe he didn't feel it at all. Just like humans, God can't hold on forever. He can't hold on to misery or broken hearts. He can't even hold on to love or being happy.
Everyone will die someday, and everyone will know someone who will die. It will be sad, distant, and mystifying. It will feel like the opaque window in the neighbor's garage that you have only noticed on sad days that begin with rain.
Dying must be beautiful. I wonder what I will see in my mind the moment before I die. I wonder if I will see white dandelions with seeds that dance in winds of blue. Or perhaps I will see every lost love that feels like throwing pennies tails side up into an empty fountain. I can't decide if it will be wonderful or lonely, or both at the exact same time.
I can't even decide why I am writing this. It feels calm and frightening and something like when you look at the clock and it says 11:12.
I can't decide why everything feels the way it does, but every day I wish I knew.
All I know is that there's too much beauty in this world to ever hold on to, and maybe, just maybe, that is why we die.
