Death was least of my concern as I continued playing my character in the play called life.
It was futile to me to worry how and when I would die, for I was aware that every play comes to an end sometime.
The stories I heard about death never bothered to foray my mind and the myths and claims of people about death being cruel and merciless were never of my acceptance.
Perhaps it was me being aware of the cruelty people posses themselves and their stupidity to make comments about it when they don’t know the taste.
Thinking about death felt better than thinking about people,
for I was certain that it would fulfil its promise of coming to me and not like people who leave with million promises of coming back but never do.
People come and pass by leaving with toil of memories to survive with and leave without a second consideration.
A tendency of this world had has it become, to first barge in one’s life and then leave tiptoed in ignorant silence,
which all but leads to mere verdict of the very said tendency being creations fault or a tradition developed gradually, but all this in the name of ‘human nature’.