Much ado about death.

  Don't take me for a creep or anything, but I have a confession. Feel free to feel weirded out or judge me during the course of your read, but at least hear me out. I like walking around graveyards and reading other people's gravestones. I like reading the names and the lifespans of the long passed. No, I'm not a grave robber, neither am I some sort of sadist looking for his kicks. It's just something about graveyards that sober me up, you know? Like a cold splash of water in the morning after a night of too much sleep.

  In my defense though, the graves here in Europe and really pretty to look at. They're lined with colorful flowers and neatly trimmed bushes. Occasionally, when a dearly departed is still being payed respect, I might even spot a full bouquet of flowers lying next to the graves. It's the gravekeepers job to keep them fresh, even graves over 50 years old look brand-new. To top it off, the golden-lettered engravings etched in marble give me all the more reason to marvel them.

  Aw, who am I kidding, if I really wanted some marble and flowers, I'd have visited a florist or some fancy porcelain store. No, there's something a little bit darker about the graveyards that keep me visiting. Maybe it's the solemn atmosphere. Maybe it's the peaceful surroundings. Or maybe I'm just still trying to see if ghosts exist or not. But wait, there's more. I sort of have my own little game that I play whenever I visit graveyards. No, don't worry, I give the dead and departed ample respect whenever I visit.

  I like looking for the young ones. I've actually spent hours scrounging and combing graveyards, looking for a young death. A 10 year old boy. A 2 year old infant. It doesn't matter to me. Long as they're young. Long as they're young enough to feel innoncent. The youngest I've found was barely over a year old. An infant, barely strong enough to walk, ripped and taken away from this world. A soul, deprived of it's chance to live. Deprived of it's chance to love.

  There's just something about a young death that sparks my thoughts into flames. They were so young. So innoncent. So pure. Now, I'm not a man of God. But I like to believe that there's a little bit of karma exists in this world. Do good, get good, you know? But it's things like a young death that pull me into the harsh reality of the two  biggest things that make our world. Of the miracle of life and the tragedy of death. Of how one cannot exist without it's significant other.

  Sadistic as it sounds, I actually feel a tiny bit happier when I leave a graveyard. Happier in the fact that I can still breathe fresh air. Happier in the fact that I can still feel sunshine on my skin. Happier in the fact that I can still enjoy a breathtaking view. Happier that I'm still alive. Yea, I guess death is somewhat of a sad tragedy. But sometimes it takes a tragedy for you to realise what a miracle really is. The miracle of our lives.