Death’s Hopeful Message

Though it seems out of date, it rings timeless (and inspired by the ghost of my conscience). Not by that fool, unhinged and stuck on the 1^st of April. How that came to be, I don’t know. The fool that I am, I just know somewhere, sometimes, some thing inside us break free – to spook us. And I don’t mean, it said, “Boo!”

Less cu(r)t/(e)ly, it said. What makes each moment, the here and now, truly matter is death (and not exactly taxes). For, if life had no end, like some oft-delayed wedding in a Coco Teleserye, there won’t be restful sleep. No inspired and meaningful mornings.

No brightness in the sun. Just fractured light. No curls and caresses from the breeze. Just a negligible brush. No fresh scent in the flowers. Just stale perfume. No point in birthdays, anniversaries, laws. No such thing as boundaries. Vows. The exhilarating dread of deadlines. Or, the surreal joy from meeting them.

And, for non-existent lovers and poets, no romance in the deep, deep moonlight.

Despite shapeless, the ghost made it clear. Eternity, alone, has no meaning in life. Eternity finds meaning in the assurance of our Faith. In the promise of John 3:16. In the struggles. In redemptions, in salvation from embracing an apostle’s tortuous and tempt-laden trek.

And, conversely, too, in that scary Grimm-like reverse-Tale about scorching fire and brimstone.

I’d agree. But this very moment, it’s not the absence of Hell-yard beer or barbecue that should really bother us. It is not the sad prospect of soon missing out on Friends or Ang Probinsiyano re-runs, either. It’s really the self-initiated Soul-cuts on daily living – a cruel hemorrhage, draining us of life.

How? By hating, for instance. By hating too much and then wanting it, too often.

This daily misery is a daily dying. Not a living. Not, at all.

For really, our dear gentle ladies and feminine men: A life lived in hatred of one’s self is not lived at all. It is a warped and empty life, a thousand times worse than a zombie’s state. For if a zombie is already bereft of spirit, of light in their eyes, of no awareness in their being. No grace in their dancing. No cadence in their purposeless chase – the hater has yet to.

The tragic thing is, if the last spark goes, all hope goes as well.

And losing hope is the greatest tragedy to befall the living. For more often than not, the hater is aware of his own pain and insecurity. And therefore, is heavily burdened. Because, it supplants the potential for real joy.

So – before hate’s teeth finds its way into your being. Listen before it gorges your whole being. Listen, although this is not the ghost of Zarathustra, who speaks:

Let your spirit soar, soar, soar and burn in the embers of joyful living! Die,

die with passion in the moment!

Rise. Rise, every time, a free and bold ‘Lazarus.’

Breathe that air. And live. For that is all we can ever do.

Live.

So, the ghost’s point is, the next time that wonderfully-acrid wat-wat smoke beckons us. Let every fiber of that meat swirl in our mouth. Let every cup of tapuy intoxicate us with the possibilities…the possibilities that there could be more wat-wat and intoxicating tapuy to come. And, if you just might just live a little bit longer, will be blessed by Kabunian on your table. (Psalm 23)

A belated sober and soulful All Soul’s Day to all. If not this year. Maybe the next.