The Unfairness of Death

There are days in a writer's life that you wake up in the morning feeling a certain pain in your chest. It is uncomfortable, it sometimes can itch, but it usually can be ignored. Just not today for me.

I am here to talk about one of the most unfair subjects I could ever even try to write about; Death.

In my perspection? Makes no sense. Okay, maybe I am saying this because I don't know how to deal with it, or maybe I just never had enough deaths around me of people that I care to learn, to get used to with how it rolls. Call me selfish, but I would rather spend the rest of my life thinking of death as a bizarre, an even ridiculous thing, than getting used to losing people forever.

Think with me: You scheduled a diner with your lover, has an appointment with your dentist, has plans for the following week, you have a list of things to buy the next time you go to the supermarket and you have to start going to the gym and in fact, you are already paying the gym, and then suddenly, in the middle of the afternoon, you die. What the hell? What about the emails you never checked, the book that you never had the chance to finish, that phone call that you promised you would give to your little sister to make sure that everything is going okay with her?

I don't know where this malicious idea came from. To die. For what reason exactly?

You spent more than ten years of your life inside of a school, studying chemical formulas that you never used in your entire life, but you were there, learning all about Newton and Dalton and whoever else they thought it would be important for your future. Had a lot of P.E classes and sometimes you almost lost your breath playing those stupid games like dodgeball, but you never gave up. Spent the whole night up studying for your finals and having massive headches because of it, even if you never were really sure about what you wanted to do with your life, you never were sure about your career, your vocation, but it was finally time to choose and you had to, and once again you never gave up and just rolled with the rest of them. And then suddenly this whole thing comes to an end because of a car crash, an artery clogged, a shoot from a delinquent who just happened to like your shoes.

What the actual hell?

Death is a huge wit.

Makes you leave in the middle of the party without saying goodbye to anyone, without having time to listen to your favorite song one more time. You left at home all of your shirts hanging in your closet, your towel still wet on the shower floor, and you even have a dog to feed. The others will be responsible for having to organize everything, to clean your drawers, and to wash every step you left behind during your entire life. You, who always used to say "My things are my responsibility". Just not anymore.

What a bizarre prank: you leave your house after breakfast, and maybe you won't even make it to lunch. You walk down the streets, and you might not even get to the next corner. You start to say something, and you may never finish that sentence.

You don't do checkups, you smoke two packs a day, drink pretty much everything, enjoy your meat underdone, only hooks up with blonde girls and you die during a Saturday morning. If you do checkups regularly, has zero additions, it doesn't matter because newsflash: You will die anyways!

Was that meant to be taken seriously? If you are one hundred years old, okay, the sleep of eternity might be welcome. There is nothing much to do anyways, you body is not keeping up with your mind, and speaking of which, your mind is not quite the same as it was years ago, not alone that you pretty much has nothing left in the drawers. Okay, time to rest in peace.

But before you live everything, before you live until the end? That is unnaceptable. Dying young is a transgression, undoes the natural order of things. Death is an exaggeration. And, like everyone knows, the exaggeration is the raw material of jokes.

Except that, this one isn't funny. At all.