The Death I walk beside is neither big, nor noisy. It does not announce itself, it does not demand our fear, our mortality, it does not feed on pools of red nor graveyards filled with expensive concrete and marble nor the cries of carrion birds.
The Death I walk beside casts a mortal shadow and demands that we do the same.
It requires our gaze only in that it walks beside me and its very presence requires that we change the plot of our path to accommodate Its shadow.
This Death is our daily guide, carves its initials in our flanks and takes a daily dole from our hearts and our souls.
Its the in-between, the space of change, the black hole that envelopes and hides and requires a sacrifice in order to escape its clutches. Its the people you strive to not make eye-contact with, the severed shadow-selves who perch upon the walk and beg for your attention. Its the hidden, the threshhold, where we have the choice of holding the door open or slamming it close. Its the point where live and death become nebulous. We name it, call it change and it scares us. Its the chaos of the dark and the chaos of the light pooled across our skins and our brains and our lives.
This is the Death who is my companion, who whispers in my ear that we must be grateful for these opportunities that beat us down and bleed us upon the earth. This is our ritual sacrifice, our returning to the womb.
This is the passage from Life into Death into Life and I am the psychopomp to bear silent witness to the sacred act of rebirth.