Beautiful as Death

Nothing in this world is as beautiful as death.
From your abandoned teacup another will blow steam, in your mirror another will glimpse their reflection, the flowers from your planted tree will perfume someone else's air; yet you will be gone.

The gatherings that could never spark without you, where friends collapsed in laughter at your every word, those very gatherings will one day fall into hollow silence at the mere mention of your name. The song you sang that no one ever bothered to hear—that very song will one day be hummed by everyone. Hidden away in shadows, someone will wipe tears from their eyes in the dark.

Death is truly, terribly beautiful. You—whose living presence once irritated everyone—ah, your absence will one day become impossibly precious!

Yes, death is as beautiful as it is grotesque. Days, months, years will roll by until your memory too dissolves like smoke. Everything you left behind will be divided up by right of inheritance. Like a distant star watched from afar, every trace of you will shrink smaller and smaller until nothing whatsoever remains.

Then, one day, even your final footprint will vanish completely from the earth's surface. You—who once lived with such commanding presence—will one day become just another nobody that this world never knew.

Death is beautiful . . . disgustingly beautiful.