Death, a friend.

I’ve never been good at small-talk.  Not ever.  I don’t talk about the weather or about any other surface level things.  I like to talk about the hard stuff.

Politics.  Death.  Dying.  Love.  Hate.  Anger.

The things that hurt.  The things that make people angry.  The things that make people think, that make them angry, or sad.

Death is one of my favorite things to talk about, my favorite thing to think about or write about.  But that makes me strange, I think.  People don’t know how to take me, or the way I talk about death.

Death and I have an understanding, of sorts.  She knows that when she comes for me, I will go with her, without a word or a fight.  On that day, and only then, we will go, side by side, like old friends.  Until then, she taunts me, claiming those I love and popping up every time I close my eyes.

Why is death so hard for people?

It’s just the end of the story.

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