Around 7000 people will die today; various causes, and mostly unimportant to the dead. I never much think about death. I think that has a lot to do with religion and how much I despise it. I tend to think that all religion is only a means to explain, justify, compensate, and understand death, but it is not. It only uses death to further it’s own agenda, and it uses words like morality and righteousness as it’s calling cries. I have actually noticed that the more religious a person is, the less moral they are. They tend to break every commandment; they judge people with honor and as freely as they chew down a big slab of “Thos shall not kill” as they wave their American flags at war rallies. They have been the underlying cause of almost every war fought in the history of man, and they’re the first people to squash love if it doesn’t fit their own unique comfort levels. They disown, disavow, and disrespect everything they deem unreligious, and to be honest, they are downright mean. They have families they can’t support, and they support intuitions that prop up pedophiles and sexual deviants, and they give money to assure their entrance into a heaven that only would continue their unfair and limited existences.

Death hasn’t been a staple in my life, but that’s the reason I stay sane. Around 120 people died in car accidents the year my friend Joel did. He was 22 and I looked up to him in ways that I can’t imagine today, and will never again. My age rejects heroes and mentors because we’ve read through the bullshit. Around 2500 people died of heart problems the year my sister died. She was only one of 2500, but she was only 35 years old, and no amount of religious bullshit will ever make me miss her less. She had a certainly of will that I will never understand, and will never forget. The year my uncle died of cancer he was joined by 1517 others. I never once saw the man without a smile, and deep down in a family that didn’t hug or show any kind of affection I always knew he cared about me. He once told me that he worried about me when I grew my hair out. It consumed some nights as he lied awake thinking about it. He was right to worry, and the only one who did. As my hair grew, my life got more and more out of control, and I became more and more depressed. I thought if I covered myself, if I hid myself from the world I would be better … no one saw that but him.

About 100 people died the year my best friend’s mother was killed in a car accident by a drunk driver. It started a landslide of grief that he has yet to recover from. 80 people died the year my friend killed herself. I remember her face, and I remember the underlying sadness that seemed to encompass her. I remember the fake smiles, and the odd behavior. I remember that others hated her, and she sensed all their gazes. I think I feel the worse for her. I think there is certain sadness to someone dying, but I think there is an overwhelming sense of regret that you feel when you know death was something they wanted. I worked on a suicide hotline when I was in college, and I spoke to tons and tons of people calling to tell me how awful their lives were, and how much they wanted it all to end. It was not a reset button they wanted to hit, it was not the though of an afterlife, it was the thought of not feeling this pain that we all hide and bury. It was the sense of knowing that feeling nothing would for certain be better than feeling their everyday.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that … I’m not trying to say anything.

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