Chapter Twenty Nine: More Bizarre Deaths

All men makes mistakes, but a good man

yields when his course is wrong,

and repairs the evil.

The only crime is pride.

Sophocles, Antigone

-o0o-

There were three bodies slain. Anew. It tells of an obvious pattern, but offers nothing else.

It sings a confession nobody could hear. It was a death so swift, and surrounded by mystery. Perhaps it was brought by a certain misery that was wanting to get out, but suppressed by numerous calculations of attributed moral value. How can such desire be illegal when it was about the identity of the warriors of literature? Courage is very much needed in the dangers of this world, and nothing else can stop it.

But here is the same reality that cannot be comprehended by a simple appreciation of the abstract of thoughts. Death comes in many ways, yet sometimes it was packaged differently. Maybe it was a death of an ugly thing that must disappear in the fullness of life, of a dwelling that is well lit with all the positive virtues that glorify a character; that something must die within, in order for a new seed of hope to take its own predestined place.

And that place is a person's heart. The known predestination of love, willfully, exclusively, eternally.

These dead bodies lay there in complete violation of the nature of life. It was a desecration of thoughts, but more than the manner of thinking, it was about the ideas of liberation, all the matters that make us free. To choose the painful path while being offered the choice of not doing the way of suffering is the best infinite form of obedience. This has always been the way of the cross, mighty and efficacious.

The death offered by the cross is the most humiliating kind, yet it was unpleasant in a plesant way. With this in mind, there was reassurance that these killings are designed to sound the alarm of nature's pursuit of its own curse. Death emits a certain call in a simple tone, a valid claim to the mystery of things buried inside its philosophical constructs, which draws primarily to the longing of a free soul that wanting to break free. A new beginnings awake while the phoenix rises from the ashes.

Was it simply mythological in a sense?

In the end, death appears to be an intramural of sorts, a trivial matter that was worsely feared for whatever it is that exists after the horizon, but the sting of which is not metaphysically present anymore. Reality here, then, becomes the experience of the fiction of thoughts that happens in complete contradiction to the faith in certain things, which is only substantially present within the persuasion of thoughts.

Would that make it invalid, though?

There are three dead bodies, just to restate the serious predicament. Are more deaths needed to transpire in an already fragile world? One must not ultimately await for the declaration of time to ultimately find out for himself.

Indeed, there is nothing else. The truth shall be searched cautiously well, the modality by default in substance, while every single thing that matters was disguised in the reflective goons of suffering and strength.

x--------x

Picture from Pexels.