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Death is universal in all human literature. It is an all-consuming concept that we are all inexplicably drawn towards. Death is the ultimate equaliser. For however grand our arrival, our departure is always guaranteed.

We relish in seeing tragedy befall upon others. The ruination of others brings us catharsis and a twisted sense of relief that such tragic happenings seem so far detached from real life. That it cannot possibly happen to us. When we see people suffer, we are seeing from behind the veil of a faceless identity, sequestered and uninvolved.

Still, deep within us, we all have a penchant for madness – for us to feel the most excruciating of pain, and live so debased a fate, but still come round intact, forged anew, and stronger than ever.

It is not so much our sadistic tendencies, or even masochistic tendencies, that we find tragedies so enticing. Rather, it is our simple will to live.

When it comes to Life and Death, Life monopolises all, and Death is the forgotten identical twin, only mentioned out of spite when necessary, but otherwise, wholly ignored as best as we can. We celebrate birthdays, but we grief the dead. We reward wrongdoers with a second chance at life, but we punish others with death. Death should deserve the same respect as life deserves.

For a life well-lived, we should respect its end. For a life wasted, it is all the more reason for us to appreciate its end. Through all the pain, we, as living creatures, will live beautifully, and die gratefully.

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