The Irony of Life and Death

This business of dying everyday, of dying to self: when does it stop? Or, shouldn’t we at least have some sort of time off? Admittedly, it is undeniable. Life is a series of little deaths, of coming to life and coming to an end. The sooner we understand and accept that, the sooner we get down to the business of... dying, or, wait...should it be living to die. Whatever. Our very existence depends upon it, but come on. Isn’t there a point when the barrage lets up? You’d think that somehow, along the way, a ceasefire will be declared, a temporary end to this cycle of birth, death, and the birthing. But the cycle continues, and there is no letting up.

We find the pavement of our journey littered with the corpses and the remains of discarded parts of who we are: dreams, wishes, emotions, even the little joys we think won’t be begrudged of us. Just the same, they end up as refuse- lifeless, hollowed shells of where and who we were. This series of death is a fact of our being. We all die. We are all dying. We die to our old life. We die to the things that used to define us. The dying may come naturally, or it may come as a violent tearing away, and we are overwhelmed. Or it may be tender, maudlin affair with whispered longings and death-bed confessions.

We come out of this series of little deaths, in some grand ironic way, more alive, more attuned to the world around us. And no matter how painful, how drastic, how traumatic, we do not begrudge this greatest irony of all.

*The famous sunset by Manila bay...We were driving through the gnarliest, ugliest traffic jam ever south of Manila, and then the Painter created this beautiful work of art...