Life tis but a fickle construct, an ever changing web of ideas and ideals, morals and morality, death and heartbreak–a construct, that’s all it is, a fragile thing, a scaffold per se. We will all die someday, whether by natural or unnatural causes–it will happen, it can not be prevented, so while we may not latibulate and cry in a corner at the idea of death, we just fudgel and pretend life will continue… until it stops, a sudden, unforeseen end–a final, irreversible end. We all will die one day, and we don’t bawl and shout “O but a day!”, we don’t react.Death, an ultimate, irreversible end; some crave it, some flee from it, but no matter who thou art, no matter thy wealth or thy religion, thou will die, and we all accept that, there’s no reverse, no savepoint, a final, unescapable end. Some may cry at the idea of death, at its suddenness and finality, but the fact is–we all will die, one way or another, it’s natural, it’s fine, there’s no reason to cry or mourn–tis but a construct, an idea, an ideal, that life is forever, unending, unyielding, but it’s not, all of our skin will rot, our body turn to oil and dirt, our minds gone to the wind, gone, erased forever, never to be seen again.

More opinions likes this should come soon, in the meantime you may want to look at similar works like Albert Camus's The Myth of Sisyphus

Date of writing: 2025-05-26