Structured, Focused And Positioned In Memory Of A King
How come some stories have an ending when they never had a starting?
On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend’s life also, in our own, to the world. Though we are terrorized by death, it’s not different from birth, it just happens. The world slides, the world goes, and death makes equal the rich and the poor. We all want to become more than we are, we want to live forever, that is why we hate death and create the afterlife. We die a day at a time. Love is the most powerful force in the universe, and for true beings, who respect each other, separation is only temporary. By the Laws of Attraction, they will inevitably be drawn back together, like magnets. Death never comes at the right time, despite what mortals believe. Death always comes like a thief. To fear death, gentlemen, is no other than to think oneself wise when one is not, to think one knows what one does not know. No one knows whether death may not be the greatest of all blessings for a man, yet men fear it as if they knew that it is the greatest of evils.
The worst feeling in the world is not losing your friend forever, but rather having patronizing people tell you that the love you have for your friend and the connection and emotion you have towards them is an illness to be cured, a problem to be covered up and hidden away by the power of mood-altering drugs. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. We all know that’s cliche; it comes from people who have nothing comforting or original to say. While no one is ever really gone they live in us, as us, engagement with the tangible is just as sacred and real as our engagement with the spiritual. The people who embrace us, and the physical world that we can touch, see, smell, and taste are not strictly illusions. They are aspects of the Absolute, made manifest. The world and the people in it are the surface of that thing we call God, and loss is a stripping away of that surface. When the stripping away occurs, a presence arrives. That presence is an invitation to embrace our pain, and through that embrace, allow the intangible to embrace us.
Wrinkles on our weather-beaten face and hands mirror untold stories of those in the frozen ground whose crosses and headstones bear the same aged features. Wrinkles of joy and creases of laughter join in to create the landscape of this face. With today’s world of Botox and ageless beauty, are we too quick to dye grey hair and remove the well-earned crow’s feet that portray remarkable lives lived. Every day part of our mind exercises are devoted to bracing ourselves against the advancing penultimate act that foreshadows our sorrowful ultimate demise. It is foolish to deny our destiny. We must play life’s mocking game to the predetermined finish line. Every twist and turn is perilous. Fate is comparable to walking on black ice: we are eventually bound to slip. The untiring testing hand of fate will trip each of us up on one or more occasion before it delivers its fatal blow. The awful truth is that the graveyard is every person’s final destiny.
Life is transient and death is unfathomable, but questions nonetheless abound. What emotional rhythms, pitches, pauses, stresses, and intonations drive the meter of a person’s life? When the church bells toll my parting day, what tone will it strike in the hearts of other people, if any? Is there a person whoever traversed this crusty rock that we call planet Earth who did not wish for other people to remember them after their death? I confess sharing the vain longing of all men, however humble, to be remembered, not for the crimes that I committed but for fully expressing the poetic gift of life. When I ask what other people will think when I die, I must also ask why I lived, what did I live for, and what joy did I bring other people, if any. What acts, thoughts, and deeds make people beloved? What resounding chime resonates with all loving people? What magical filament binds us? What serves as the ethereal umbilical cord that causes all conscience stricken humans to crave the same universal sense of being?
If we don’t think about our death until we die, how can we decide how we want to live? It is a feeling of being self-contained, existing only within the boundaries of oneself, impaled by the horn of ones own thoughts, memories bleeding out, but slowly, the moment stretching to infinity, the clocks of the world now useless, like deflated balloons that have spun around aimlessly for a while and then, sputtering, float lazily to the ground, their mechanical parts now draped over rocks and seashells, Nature is never static. It is always changing. Everything is in a constant state of flux. Nothing endures. Everything is in the process of either coming into being or expiring. When people pass on we must choose how to remember them. While our loved ones sleep for eternity we must carry on with our daily toil. We can elect to harbor adoration and love in our precious memories or cling to animosity and detestation. Even as we live with the knowledge that each day might be our last, we don’t want to believe it.
All roads in this mystical world tragically lead to death. Every personal narrative repeats the same rhetorical trope. I used to think that grief was about looking backward, old men saddled with regrets or young ones pondering should-haves. I see now that it is about eyes squinting through tears into an unbearable future. The world cannot be remade by the sheer force of love. A brutal world demands capitulation to what seems impossible separation. Mortality is a hard thing to face. That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Old age is meant to slow us down just before the final destination; otherwise reaching the stop would be too abrupt. Life ends with death for each of us for kings like you Mark, and slaves, and gods we are tied together by the final knot of death and failure, so there is no reason to look down on any other or for the gods to be patronizing or judgmental. We all lose. We all fail. We all die. But we all fight, and struggle, and defeat is not refutation, Birth is not a beginning; it’s a continuation. That lends tremendous comfort because we then understand that, equally true, death is not an end; it’s merely a continuation.Death is easy, living difficult. and Mark Allen none did it better than you. Rest In Peace My Brother Eternally
In Memory Of Mark Allen