Some of us are loved into existence. Some are hated into existence. Some are conceived as pawns in a game. Some are born of hope, or grief, others of disinterest, selfishness, ignorance, boredom. Some are born of brutal possession and unbridled lust. And yet, however it is brought about, our arrival is a living symbol which transforms and transcends its cause. And our death? Some of us are loved away, some are hated, some are . . . but in death there is this vital difference: death is something we can face each moment and every day, and, if we are not afraid, come to terms with, be grateful for, love, and understand. To let go and be ready to die now, even if one lives on many years — that is freedom. It is freedom to smile. It is freedom to seem strange or completely unremarkable to those who cling. It is freedom to laugh, to weep, to feel compassion. It is freedom to see that we are an integral part of what we contain: everything.
October 4, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
William Michaelian 