A Journey Of Death

The First Death

My journey truly began when I saw the first spark of life in this long endless voyage dwindle and fade, snuffed by the weight of expectation I held. Its small mortal frame no less powerful than one which would dwarf the stars, but still it lay dead, defeated by its own mortality.

Mortality... an odd concept, equally revered as it is feared. None choose to think about the end of what is and what will be. To accept that moment when your sand no longer falls, when the light no longer warms your skin as a single leaf gently glides from a tree, travelling beneath the sway of another as it signals your end, to join and be joined by others.

I envy those with mortality.

You have an end whilst I do not, I wonder alone, a mere image walking alongside your path, wanting, yearning to be able to reach out and touch it, but forever unable too. I have existed for aeons, drifting endlessly, watching countless hosts of planets and stars spin, secure in their paths, growing old as I remain still.

Forever watching, unable to touch.

Silently they span, an honorary agreement as they all waited for that same small spark of life, the beginning of their end. I was the same, silently I sat, waiting to witness that spark take life, the start of a path where none can guess to its end.

Not even death knows, it merely waits.

I apologise. I grow, side tracked. Writing my thoughts whilst speaking aloud for none to hear... is it my thoughts or words that may one day be found? Is there a way for life to prevail over death?... If there is, then I have not seen it yet.

But how I wish for it.

As I have said before, or written, I know not which record you have found. At the beginning there was a light, but before that light 'we' existed. A selection of existences, odd and ill placed, if only 'we' did not exist, then what has been need not. Formless and without life we had no flesh to coat our bodies, no skin to warm us. Timeless we lay trapped, floating consciousnesses in an unending pocket of bleak expanse, no idea 'others' were there. All were the same, floating, purposeless, devoid.

No end to be earnt.

That which is not alive cannot die, no matter how it may want too.

It was the light that peeled back our prison, shining bright as creation began, the birth of all infinite possibilities coming together. 'We' watched, bathed in such purity, never dulled by the sight but gradually 'we' drew apart.

Each of 'us' was... called.

I can only describe it as a pull, a call to my very being, guiding me away, leaving only a single solitary light behind.

Illuminating all, but still it faded from sight.

The rest of this part you know, of the planets that grew stagnant, their hushed silence as they lead me to encounter that which I dubbed as my own namesake.

"Death."

When do you consider yourself to be alive? What inane quality must be possessed for you to be recognised in the eyes of another? To be weighed and measured by their morals and acknowledgements.

This answer is easy for me.

"Only when you recognise death do you start to live. When you grow fearful that an action will lead to it, when living becomes a fight against it. When mortality overrules morality."

You may disagree with my answer, but do not forget that I exist outside your reasoning, looking into your glass jar. So fragile that it can break with the slightest touch. I know you are unconvinced so I shall tell you of the first death, of the original life that began with a spark.