Death's Faces

"After class, Donne, Dickenson and Poe's readings showed things in a
different light. Though I had toyed with the idea of them as a
metaphorical work, I hadn't contemplated the idea with any true
seriousness. Now though, it seems quite obvious. I have to wonder
however, we have been shown death as a slave, as a gentleman as a
reaper. As humans we try to put emotions and characterizations to
things such as love, death, even God?"
I stopped tying momentarily, and tilted my head, as though trying to
look better at the words on the screen. What was my point then? Did I
have one? I laughed at the thought that I might, then sighed.
Death wasn't something you could pin humanity to. Especially not a
humanity that changes as often as the people who make it up do. It was
not a slave, though it could be considered that. It didn't go out of
its way to 'reap souls' or have a list of those it must kill. I left
the screen, going after some milk. Someone once had told me hair was
dead. Was it? I thought it was an especially cruel concept, even if it
was a false one.
What was death then? The milk slopped a bit over the rim of the glass,
spilling onto a story I had once written. I glanced it over cursorily.
I'd like to consider it the ilk of Steven King, but I knew I had no
such talent. It told of someone who knit a blanket with two of her
friends, then each cut off their piece, stitching it onto the next. I
thought for a moment, perhaps the ancients were closer on track.
The three muses, called the Fates, drew and cut peoples lives with
golden cords. They had no set pattern, and didn't care what happened to
the people. They just cut it off. Of course, one would wonder, why? Did
they play at dice, and whoever got snake eyes cut a cord? I thought it
over, and promptly decided - death is a fair bit like that.
I nodded, more to myself than anyone, since the room was empty of all
other "living" creatures. It crossed my mind for a moment, how often
life and death entered into casual conversation. That of course, had no
bearing to this writing. I moved the mouse around on the mouse pad and
the screen sprang back to life, allowing me to continue my work.
"Death I think is nothing like these images; though they could be, to
the person who meets death. Death instead, is more just there. It goes
about its merry way, and sometimes cuts off a little life thread,
leaving a cold corpse behind itself. It has no morals, nor humanity;
because it isn't human, and never was. I don't suspect it is not above
these morals, but it isn't below them either. It simply has its own
versions of them. And that is how I see death."