Edge Lord

Common stories paint a picture of fate as an eschatological attractor: a final point of resolution where the hero and villain meet and together produce a satisfying tone—a note of irony, tragedy, completeness. But this type of content is aimed at soothing a frightened mind in need of paternal comforting that says, "Things will inevitably resolve and improve: after life, comes heaven." But there is no final point where we may rest. Heaven is not real. Our fate is return . I suspect that everything that has been done will be done again. However, particular occurrences will not repeat themselves, but, the things that matter will; we will repeat meaningful things. You will only turn 10 years old once. But the loneliness that you felt on your tenth birthday you will feel again when you become 40. Such an inescapable fate is known as  tragedy . The self is a set of more-or-less interlinked cycles. We will repeat our mistakes. This is a part of our nature, and it is called 

I used to believe in the void. I thought that is where I would go when I died. But now I feel uncertain. ... I had a conversation with a painter. I asked, "What is the color of death." I thought she would say black, but she said, "Brown." "I think it's gray," I said. "Gray is the color of death. Not black. Not white. Gray is the color at the end of the universe, when nothing happens: no tension left to spark anything." "Well," she said, "I've never seen the end of the universe. But if you look at something dead, you'll see that it decays and feeds new life." She is quite the empiricist , I thought. But what about me ? What about my death?  What will life be like after I turn into ten-thousand flies? Perhaps death has no color. It is a lens—a magnifying glass, a telescope, a prism. Thereby we may bring the infinite into focus.