Anonymousย [ @primordialfell ]asked:
A whisper of thought, shaken out from a shadow mired in a veil. Conversation with another wolf, who wears a cape like โฒ. A predator speaks to a predator in a place outside time, and this is what he says:
Ah, Death, what a mired and outdated concept. Last and first great arbiter of beginning and the end. First and last great decider of that which is real and that which is not. I have come to sermonize; you need not listen. I know what you are, and what you are is me.
You and I are the same, in some way. However, I disapprove of these things, these ideas of suffering and sorrow. Tell me if you agree; death is not a thing of terrible sorrow, for death is the great equalizer that whets its teeth on the smallest of us. From the predator that gores its prey with its teeth to the newborn kitten that cannot bear the strength to ever be more than twelve hours old.
What's the meaning in that, I want to ask.
Do you think there comes meaning in the strength to resist you? Do you find pleasure in knowing that you are a predator that hunts things that can't evade you forever? I wonder what that means when you find something that does surpass you. There's a lot like us, after all.
Take me, for instance, though I'm sure you don't know what I am. I'm adjacent to your jurisdiction, an outside context problem, you might say. You would have no reason to know me, but I tell you this; I kill, I am not killed. I shed blood, but mine is never shed. I am the thief that steals from everything, but I cannot be stolen from.
I wonder where you find meaning in knowing that I am alive and I persist. I wonder where your purpose comes from.
I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.
If a concept could have a persona he'd find himself chuckling at the string of accusatory ambience. It often disguised itself well, didn't it? Whispers, stories, legends and tales struggling to put a face and name on something far too grand to grasp so mortals can be comfortable in it's presence. They all shared the theme of melancholy, dread; a looming figure wrapped tight in tattered shawls to obscure whats beneath and always carrying something sharp to cut away one's final thread.
All guesses were shallow deep. Death does not blame this sentience either for it's assumptions. It simply becomes what others see it as be it a reaper, a corpse, an angel, a wolf --
-- and even the predator lying in wait.
It's reach was far more deeper then that. Sincere even through the grim allegories.
Is it better to have lived then to not have lived at all? More then the eternal who's lived millenias on borrowed time and the newborn experiencing Life if just for a few moments. Before them they were Nothing. If Death was hard to understand imagine grasping the concept of Nothing itself. Some say they'd rather have that then pain and suffering, all temporary and can be overcome, but to truley be Nothing means not even having the pleasure of thought to enjoy the concept for not even that exists in the empty beyond.
I am more then the end. I am experience and exchange. I am the energy dispersing after a galaxies collapse, time between seasons changing, the final snap of a leaf falling from its mother branch, the fleeting moment of parting between souls at every goodbye, and the moments between each and every second into Time.
I exist and work simply because everything else does, including you.
Until there is Nothing I will continue too simply because I am. And Death was never that complicated to begin with.
Perhaps even you will meet me one day. You exist and therefor Are.
So Death knew anyways. But if it's concept can be misunderstood there's definetly a chance it too did not understand this other.