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You always get told that “life is precious”, especially in this sport. You put your body on the line, for the entertainment of others, the love of the game or maybe for some sick masochistic ritual. It doesn’t matter, to hurt is to feel alive. Right?
And death is inevitable, right?
So why? Why does this all sting so hard? A poison dagger to the heart, and black blood leaks from the wounds. Why?
To hurt is to feel alive.
A wise bastard once said “I’m like a cockroach, you can’t kill me.” Unfortunately, the reaper doesn’t take too kindly to those, who think they can defy god. Or death for that matter.
The cruelest part is when it hits right at their peak or prime. Just when things get started for them, the phrase “gone too soon” echoes in their wake.
But Death doesn’t care. Death has a role. And that role is finite.
So man, woman or bastard can try and defy that role. As much as we all wish they could. As much as we all wish, that for a select few to have the capability to cheat death. But no, science doesn’t work like that.
But when it’s someone who actively tries to defy death, their career is putting their body on the line. It only makes it hurt more. Because they cheated death, they could do it
…just not this time.
Luck runs out eventually.
And you can be pissed, you can cry, you can scream out to whatever high power you believe in “WHY?!” It doesn’t matter.
Because it was their time, whether we like it or not. Whether we question Death’s decision or not. It was their time, because Death said so.
So, what now?
We sit in the chasm left in their wake, piece memories together like a mosaic to try, and find the truth behind the mirage of kayfabe. Tall tales are only told after someone’s dearest has departed.
Sure, it will fill a gap for a while.
But after time, people’s memories get hazy. Stories muddled, a voice fading, the inflections are different. Facial features get muddled, and suddenly.
You forget what they look like.
And that chasm remains, empty, black and bleak. Hollow, like the grief is still there. Because it is.
But, time passes. And that bleakness turns to nostalgia, the darkness fades a little. Making the black more grey, some colour starts shining through. And remembrance can truly begin. Maybe, maybe Death’s role is not to strip us of what we love. But to make sure we remember those before they go. To tell the ones around us that we love them. To love and live freely, because you never know when that time comes for you.
It still hurts, that dagger’s pain still sears into your heart. But it will heal, not today, not tomorrow. But it shall.
More importantly, we must never forget. Gravity tried, it failed. So why should we?