Life and Death

Nice and quiet, death.
"He's out of the pain," they'll say.
"At least it's over for her," they'll console themselves.
And it's true.

No pain.
No rush.
No targets.
No objectives.
No time-scales.
No friends coming round.
No school parents' evening to rush for.
No traffic jam on the Hammersmith flyover.
No need for regular injections to keep yourself going.

Just a quiet calm. An unconscious calm. Like the deepest of deep sleeps, as fixed by physical exhaustion, clear conscience, vodka or sleeping pills, according to choice or need.

Why get dragged back?
Why go where the light hurts your eyes?
Why come back to the screaming, dying, teeming, turning world?
Why go back where there are people who hate you?
People whose very meaning you challenge?
People who want you dead again?

Why not stay here, where it's calm and restful and quiet?

Nice and quiet, death.
But it's a bit of a dead end.
Unless there's someone calling you back.
Or something to make it worth pushing on through it to the other side.