I have heard it said that Death often appears in the form of an angel. That, I can promise you with full confidence, is a load of bullshit. Death doesn’t come or go as it pleases like a wraith in the night. It has no heart with which to extend any modicum of mercy to those it claims by appearing in some comforting form. Instead, death is a constant companion to us all, the fit and fragile alike, from our first breath to our last. We’re born with death in our blood, our muscles, our bones. It’s each man’s personal virus, mindlessly driven in the singular purpose to one day bring down its host. It eats us alive from the inside out in a decay so subtle we hardly notice it’s begun until it’s too late. We’re fools to think death pays our desires any heed or is even capable of such worries. Why should it care if we’re afraid? In pain? Not yet ready to face the everlasting darkness? Death is no angel; it’s a virus, pure and simple, against which none of us is immune. In the end it’s far easier to accept the truth of death’s unfeeling finality than to blind oneself with visions of cowled messengers or heavenly escorts. Why fear reality? Life’s fickle and will one day abandon us all, but death remains a steadfast constant in a world where nothing else is certain. I find that knowledge intensely comforting, to be honest.

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