Death is an overrated paradox – for when we are actually besieged by sorrow of bereavement or loss, we, by determining the source of such a breed of sadness and mourning, render it helplessly corrupt, sad or perverse. Death is a causeless inevitability, pronounced in every man’s structure, and the most susceptibly basest of fools to the most complex of brilliantine intellects, accede to the ex cathedra of death that is as resolute and as impending as the better reckless jaunts of life. It is not even an issue, and though some fear, some brave, some escape the concept, nobody can ignore the practice. It has a will of it own, conditioned on some of the most un-ordained, fastidiously uncouth of modus operandi, merrily unorganized and erratic, replenished by its own uncertainty.
The question that, segregated from the sheer candor of theory, is, analogically enumerating - even if a man possesses unequivocal knowledge of the fact that he might fortuitously slip on a banana peal, does that lessen or abate or simply repudiate the pure agony of the incident.
Acknowledgement and commonplace, non-descript precognition though deter the incipient surprise but they do not deduct from the proper affect. It is like the prickly jot of pain that courses minimally but pointedly under one’s skin, as a syringe stabs through. Though one can abate the impinging involvement of the surprise but cannot completely or absolutely be evasive of the charades of the practicality of a future. Though the mental stress, discomfiture can be allayed, but the practical, physical, corporeal overtone of the reality of the event, the one segment of the dichotomy that parades as the corollary of such vicissitudes, can’t be curtailed in any presupposed way or method.
However, when we adventitiously pursue or jostle the same entrenched frame further into the topic concerned, we exhume that those who mourn at a death are observing sedulously the wayward airs of a punctilious paradox. They already concur with the presupposition of death, as readily and almost automatically when they consent to a person’s mortality, and acknowledge the inevitability, they’re wrested of the mental bent of the repercussion, and as the physical or corporeal upshot is concentrated to the one person that they so ardently mourn, it does not even tangentially involve them. What they mourn is not in favor of a loss of a person but rather a poorly selfish loss of what the individual meant to them provisionally. The demand of a man is more significant than the man himself, for the man, as acknowledged by the inevitability is temporary, what is permanent is the demand, and if in the course of events, he suffices what is conditionally being demanded of him, and when his present loss, demarcates the vacancy for the demand, that is what is mourned.
Few mourn the death of a despised fellow. Few mourn the death of those that do not befall the circumference of their personal concern. Sorry begets from one’s personality and it begets for those who are elemental in being adept with the development of their personality. If death in its concept is by default a viciously aggrieving enterprise, then have you, reader, ever tenably mourned the death of a stranger?
Sorrow is a sub-conscious presentation of one’s resistance to one’s consciousness. If weighed rationally, sorrow is despicably baseless, unproductive and needless. To mourn a death is all that, and what is more, that it is an unconscious careless act of discretion, analogous to the way you unconsciously promulgate ‘gesundheit’ when someone slovenly sneezes. It is rudimentary etiquette, it is mechanic in design, and it is fraught with an impetuous rakishness of peremptory or curt sentiment. The passionate emotions that men administer at such a circumstance are imposed, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimes, out of a sheerer motive-based propriety.
Death is an overrated paradox, where strangely the individual who loses the most, has alas the littlest to grieve of. It is recondite to comprehend this heightened philanthropy in human nature, and yet still incomprehensible to whether mock, despite or be saddened (in a surer way) of its resourcefulness.
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