Coffins behind the velvet.

{POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING}

I think about dying quite a lot. Not necessarily the suicide kind of dying, though that creeps in too sometimes, but it’s never serious… Just thoughts about pain and how much easier one way would be than another. But the kind of dying that has no real meaning; no ending note. No crying, or screaming for the pain to stop. Simply slipping quietly into a peaceful state of non-existance and tranquility. And it seems so appealing. Dressed in white, or maybe black, alone to sleep the hurt away.
And that is how we see it.
But I think that maybe the peace is a facade and that we never really get peace, do we, because of everyone left behind. And death is never easy. There are never the slow, lapping waves of calm washing over you, and instead a dark tidal wave of the regrets of the dead. No memories here. Just our stale hearts as they rest in the cages of our ribs, slowly pumping your remaining sadness round your veins before it finally gives in to the velvet curtain of darkness and it drops to shield your coffin from the tears on the pews, rotted by words of our choking throats.
If peace is the ultimate desire, then surely the nails of the coffin is no place to rest our sorry souls.

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