on being and dying while here?

The world kills us all in the end, I believe, so I write to cheat death of its winnings. But what happens when words can’t capture the pain or loose yesterday’s hold on every now? Does a single mistake in a single lifetime never, ever release its death grip on even a faltering soul?

I always thought that if you loved even your attackers unconditionally—and refused to return blows for blows—you could eventually outwalk, outlast, or outwit any tragedy, any betrayal, any shunning or disowning: I really believed you could, that a ‘chin up, nose over your toes’ approach to breathing could actually make a difference, that any person thus embarked could wrestle good from any foes, no matter how determined, any loss, no matter how primal, any wound, no matter how deep. Now I no longer know.

I ask: can there ever be life in the shadows of death? Or is death all there is? And are we, the mere weary travelers, only its fodder?

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