Toast to The Living Rather Than Mourn for The Dead
The saying was once hit on the internet that “Only the dead will be 17 forever.” I suppose, it probably indicates that youth is so temporary and filled with inanity, and what follows is repeated humdrum adult life, day in and day out, losing expectation of penny dropping on the floor, worsely, no one wants to rock the boat for the reality of life has deadened them. Thus some so-called melancholy artistic youths draw the conclusion, dying in one’s 17 is a black happiness. Because no one will care about the future of the dead, only their naive and pure past was mourned by the living. To death, it’s a weird attitude—— the dead is always sweet while the living is extremely ugly.
The truth is a helpless sadness for most people to lose the faith in afterlife ——We examine ourselves when we still believe our penance can erase our sin in the hereafter; we give great honor to the dead when we convinced ourselves that we can enjoy ourselves afterlife. However, the absurd fact is that people never treat them so sincerely during their lifetime, there are always more or less inundated with grudges, suspicions, deceits. It provokes my deep thought, why do not we just send our sincerest blessing to the living instead of the dead; why do not we just sing the ancient Egyptian paeans of the deceased for ourselves?
The orbits of everyone’s life are all like rivers, the direction of one river resembles another, rooting in the cradle, and ending in the grave. What makes them distinct from each other is their speeds and routes. People like to assess their own self-value, however, the results of their assessments will be eroded by their growing ages. This also happens in one’s pursuits of reputation and status, the boundaries in one’s heart will narrow down rapidly to a rational range, and individuals are willing to act as a nobody and substitutable role in this territory barely belongs to their own. And one day, you will be another Stephen Edwin King, receive a letter from a strange dying woman, telling you how important you are to her life—— aren’t we ignorant about the fact that how important we have once influenced others’ life? But who do draw solace from it and feel satisfied with his own again?
The saying was once hit on the internet that “Only the dead will be 17 forever.” I suppose, it probably indicates that youth is so temporary and filled with inanity, and what follows is repeated humdrum adult life, day in and day out, losing expectation of penny dropping on the floor, worsely, no one wants to rock the boat for the reality of life has deadened them. Thus some so-called melancholy artistic youths draw the conclusion, dying in one’s 17 is a black happiness. Because no one will care about the future of the dead, only their naive and pure past was mourned by the living. To death, it’s a weird attitude—— the dead is always sweet while the living is extremely ugly.
The truth is a helpless sadness for most people to lose the faith in afterlife ——We examine ourselves when we still believe our penance can erase our sin in the hereafter; we give great honor to the dead when we convinced ourselves that we can enjoy ourselves afterlife. However, the absurd fact is that people never treat them so sincerely during their lifetime, there are always more or less inundated with grudges, suspicions, deceits. It provokes my deep thought, why do not we just send our sincerest blessing to the living instead of the dead; why do not we just sing the ancient Egyptian paeans of the deceased for ourselves?
The orbits of everyone’s life are all like rivers, the direction of one river resembles another, rooting in the cradle, and ending in the grave. What makes them distinct from each other is their speeds and routes. People like to assess their own self-value, however, the results of their assessments will be eroded by their growing ages. This also happens in one’s pursuits of reputation and status, the boundaries in one’s heart will narrow down rapidly to a rational range, and individuals are willing to act as a nobody and substitutable role in this territory barely belongs to their own. And one day, you will be another Stephen Edwin King, receive a letter from a strange dying woman, telling you how important you are to her life—— aren’t we ignorant about the fact that how important we have once influenced others’ life? But who do draw solace from it and feel satisfied with his own again?
