Death, she smells of sweet roses
A faint smell of stale flowers and mildew scented the air. There is silence. This is the silence of ends, of thousands of finalities. It is not simply the death of bodies but the death of time and of identities as we know them.
Life, living energy, cannot be buried, burned, incinerated. It is only in death that we witness the separation of fact and fiction, of truth and illusion.
A thought bloomed: you are ours as we are yours. I turn it over and over, this gift of a koan that will dissipate the day i breathe my last. It’ll then be my turn to say when you ask, you are ours as we are yours.
I am a writer
living in Bangalore,
seeking to engage in life
in new ways and
to keep the
Written for the On Living and Dying series. If you’d like to be a part of the challenge, find more info here: 365 Days On Living and Dying. But first, leave a comment and let Anuradha know how you feel about what she said, and be sure to visit her over at Zennfish when you’re done.