We are born to die. We die as we live. Today, then, describes our death. Some men are blown out like candles. Others convulse and cry out. A few depart lucid and lit.
In light of the first of the Four Noble Truths (Life is suffering), shouldn’t birth be swaddled in sorrow and death elicit a sober joy?
Death is the opposite of birth, not Life. Life has no opposite.
What seems like a bad thing is humus for a good thing. A tree is first of all the total destruction of a seed.
By itself, a long life has no significance. Jesus was dead at 33. Pol Pot lived twice as long.
When his son died, Emerson looked hard at grief. He later recalled it as a shallow emotion, depthless and unreal. No stoic lives far from the fact that we are born to die.