The Beauty in Death

When I say death, what do you picture — is it a tall skeleton wearing a black hooded gown with the edges tethered and torn — do you picture yourself engulfed by the 4 sided walls — are you floating away from everything on ground or do you picture everything black and sad. We often fear the end of something. We live our lives in the constant fear of things coming to an end, most of it all shelter under the umbrella of our lives stopping at a moment.

We see how death is portrayed in most stories as something skinless, burning from its bone and smirking to snatch away soul. Whatever face we give to death — be it Yama, Grim Reaper or Santa Muerte — death is always sinister. But is it always so?

The fear of death is associated with the feeling of unsaid things and unaccomplished tasks. People have conditions for living their lives which can vary from watching their grandchild’s face, become an accomplished person, travelling every corner of the world or as simple as feeling happy most days. As humans, we act more lovingly when we know the curse which comes from hating on that things — be it our gods or beliefs.

But why is death always shown as more sinister than comforting. Isn’t heaven considered to be the holiest place one could be, then why do we have the one who takes us there? Why do we hate the one who drives us to our next destination. In this statue ‘Kiss of Death’ present in El Poblenou Cemetery in Barcelona, we see beauty in a form of sadness. The sculpture stands as a symbol to mourn the death of Llaudet family’s son. The reaper kisses the son’s face, soft and silently, like he himself his mourning the death.

Death is different for different people when I say this, I mean you wear black to show sorrow and I wear white to feel it. Few religions wear white to mourn the death of someone because according to them, white is the colour of peace and mourning. However, many religions take black to be the colour to show respect and mourning. Can we actually associate mourning with a single colour, does me wearing bright pink while resting in my gave makes me less lifeless or does it make it easier for the grim reaper to spot the souls passing.

I had these thought about death for a long time, and there is no conclusion to what I must feel. I have read Death by Julian Barnes time and again to understand what it means to get a perspective of death. To be honest, I don’t really have anything against the soul reapers. I want to be friends with him. I want to go swimming in a deep ocean together while I ride the waves on his scythe. I want to put flowers behind his ears, but if his face is a hard rock skeleton then I will plant the roots in his mouth. I don’t want to be scared of him.

The fear of death is something which I could never understand until the moment I witnessed it for myself, that there is in fact no fear of death but it’s permanence. The consternation of begin forgotten once you disappear. The fixity of all the words you’ve left unsaid and mustered silences. The fear of aching is poignant because it entails the possibility of persisting for the entire length you are alive. They say that the person is aware of their dying moment; that people see figures floating midair, waiting for the clock to hit the second. These people wear black gowns and cover their faces with masks. I have always hated how we perceive the notion of death as something sinister. How are you sure that these floating figures don’t have flowers on their skin? When they are stealing the soul, how are you sure they are not crying behind their masks? The cigar is on the verge of burning out when my eyes finally start shutting. I threw it on my bathroom floor and crushed it with my feet. Black ash, red glint, crushed white body and the dogs still dancing. I bid the spider good night and throw death a hug, thinking, if it too gets lonely sometimes.