On the Mortal Act

You do not bury the dead.
They require nothing more.
All will depart one day.
But where is the drama?
Who brought the word “unjust” here?
All is as it is.
Life is its own face, and it smiles.
To change and be changed — this is its role.
While you sleep or dream.
Or trifle with consciousness’s new toy —
Spiritual enlightenment.

Nothing — this is your answer, you, the operator.
Otherwise, if “something,” then you feel yourself lonely.
Grateful, yet not bound.
Loving now, yet not bound.
And grief — not yours, when all have gone.

So who brought the word “grief” here?

Imagine death for yourself — what lies there?
You are always a spectator in this scene.
But will you watch it the last time?

There is no “fear” there, no mystery.
You never feared it.
But the inability to contain you — this unsettles.
How few words occupy so much space.
But who will leave, and where to?
Name, or body, or story?

See the rupture between the form and what filled it.
The wholeness of your world — you excavate it,
To say the terrible: “Now I understand all.”

The part of you that weeps justly now.
And it is dead now.
But forever?
The thread is cut, but has it ceased to be a thread?

You know all that you know will die.
But you live as if you do not know.
Observe this structure!
Life as a project demanding postponement.
But then — why live?
Yet to live and know death — this is a difference demanding breakthrough!

Remember finally:
The form of death becomes so dense,
It shines through every postponement.
Here before you stands death.
And in this moment — not fear, for that would be familiar.
But longing — the awareness of inescapability.

Remember: what did you truly choose for yourself?
Do you choose death, or your “now”?
The process continues without you, yet “you” — are part of the process.
A clarity which the body refuses to hold.
Therefore you wish to flee into love and work,
Into accumulation and the postponement of not-forgetting.

Death — the only thing that renders form valuable.
Not dear, but valuable in the sense of tension.
The hell of endless life, where even choice is nothing.
Choice cuts off alternatives.
Infinity blurs all distinction.
Does it mean anything, when all is possible?

The sunset will end, and you are glad to witness its passing.
How tenderly you touch, for the skin will cool.
The voice will break forever.
You respect finitude as the structural condition of significance.
Is there the word “meaning” without it?

Do you wish to begin wandering again?
And deny it with all your strength! It is not about you!
It is somewhere far away, for the sick and wretched.
Or fear and prepare.
Seek meanings and write wills.

Or finally acknowledge the impossibility!
For there is no position, only recognition.
Hold your pain, look into the other.
Death and you — are not different.

Not “immortality of the soul” and not “eternity in the hearts of those close.”
But the absence of a position from which “I” could be dead or alive.

Play with forms, knowing they are finite.
The process cannot stop — meaning the world will fill with the effort of attention.
And this is your freedom within conditions of absolute inescapability.
Build houses, knowing they will burn.
Love, knowing all will end.
There is no “path,” but simply movement.
Not “be grateful for life and experience” — to whom, and why?
But the absence of enmity toward what unfolds.
And toward what will cease.
And even toward what did not ask permission...

Death — the boundary that makes play possible.
Without it — not endless life,
But endless waiting for life.
Not the hell of flame, but the hell of blurring.