TITLE: The Miscreants of Creation
GENRE: Women's Fiction
If all deaths were to actually happen for a reason this would be a very meaningful world. Not to say that this world is without meaning, just that the search for justification that most mourners endure is undoubtedly for their own acceptance and has no true bearing on reality. We die when we die. There is nothing more simple and certain than this fact.
In my life, her death was without meaning and so were all of those that followed. The only reason I can go on is that I must. I have no reason to leave; I have not yet left an impression.
And though I have no guilt driven need for repentance, I realize now that this stagnant pool I have been safely wading in is breeding just as much disease as the inconsequent mistakes I feared a life of passion would create in its wake. The disease seems unavoidable, but the device does not.
Safety has its place, but if I am to overcome this nothingness I find that I can no longer remain torn; passion must pursue.