Death is Eternal #396

Sunday. April 14, 2024. 2,638 words.

Instead of beginning this Death is Eternal by saying I’m panicking, I want to change things a bit and share some good news: I wrote this past week—as I intended! Does that mean I slowly wrote the newsletter a day at a time? Absolutely not! I wrote a new Harvey Turpin story. And how about Death is Eternal? Well, I didn’t write, so I’m panicking today due to the many things I must do during the day. As I said, change things a bit. I began with some good news and only then went into panic mode. And I thought I was incapable of changing... Pfft!

Contents

1. Echoes of Eternity

2. Writing: When a writer is unwilling to write

3. Bye!

4. Life (from April 8 to 21, 2024)

5. Death is Eternal review #272: MH370: The Plane That Disappeared

6. The end

1. Echoes of Eternity

The air thickened with the weight of centuries, and the ghost’s presence materialized, demanding attention that echoed through time. “Who do you think you are?” its voice reverberated, carrying the indignation of millennia. “I’ve dwelled within these walls for five millennia, and for another five, I shall remain. Who are you to invade my sanctum, seeking to obliterate me with your mechanical contraptions? Your actions are a mockery of my very existence.” The ghost’s words, as spectral as its form, whispered forth, their ethereal quality echoing the eternal lament of the forgotten.

The woman stood frozen, her facade of confidence crumbling under the weight of revelation. Though she had long professed belief in the supernatural, a gnawing doubt had always lingered in the recesses of her mind. Now, faced with the tangible manifestation of her deception, truth tore through her like a tempest. She grappled with the realization that the noble facade she had crafted was but a veneer concealing a darker reality. In the ghost’s accusatory gaze, she saw reflected the shadow of her own deceit, a truth she had long evaded. She dared not complete her faltering sentence, for the words caught in her throat, suffocated by the enormity of her hypocrisy.

The ghost’s ethereal sigh echoed through the stale air, a lament for the dwindling spark of creativity in humanity. “Yes, I’m real. Yes, ghosts are real. Yes, I speak your tongue,” it intoned with a hint of exasperation, its translucent form shimmering with irritation. “And yes, this dwelling is mine,” it added, its voice trailing off with a note of disappointment.

The woman stood before the apparition, her senses reeling with disbelief and dread. Each word from the ghost’s lips seemed to carve deeper into the facade of her reality, exposing the fragile threads of her beliefs. Yet, as the spectre lamented the monotony of human curiosity, a pang of guilt gnawed at her conscience.

Unable to bear the weight of the ghost’s reproach, the woman’s resolve crumbled like ancient parchment. With a strangled cry, she fled from the presence of the otherworldly being, abandoning her tools of deception in a silent admission of guilt. In that fleeting moment of flight, she glimpsed a reflection of her own hypocrisy, a shadow cast by the harsh light of truth.

As the woman vanished into the night, the ghost remained in its incorporeal form, a testament to the inexorable passage of time. Though the encounter had ended abruptly, its reverberations would linger, casting ripples across the fabric of existence. For the ghost, it was a familiar refrain, a tale of fleeting encounters and forgotten truths.

Yet, amidst the ebb and flow of mortal folly, the ghost found solace in the quiet wisdom of oblivion. It knew that the story of the woman was but a fleeting chapter in the vast tome of existence, a footnote in the annals of eternity. For the ghost, the journey would continue, a timeless odyssey through the shifting sands of human folly and divine indifference.

For millennia uncounted, the ghost had haunted the crumbling halls of its ancient abode, a spectral sentinel bound by chains of memory and purpose. Time flowed like sand through its translucent fingers, marking the passage of centuries with silent witness. Yet, for all its enduring presence, the ghost remained ensnared in the tangled web of its own existence, unable to break free from the shackles of unfinished business.

In the beginning, when the ghost first awoke to the chilling realization of its spectral state, it found itself surrounded by kindred spirits, their luminous forms a flickering beacon in the darkness of the afterlife. They whispered words of solace and guidance, weaving a tapestry of understanding to ease the burden of acceptance. In those bygone days, the realm of the dead teemed with souls, each bound by the weight of unresolved desires and untold stories.

In a world where mortality was but a fleeting choice, the spectre of unfinished business loomed large, casting a shadow over the ethereal landscape. For the ghost, the path to liberation lay shrouded in mystery, a labyrinth of forgotten dreams and shattered hopes. Try as it might, the ghost could not unravel the enigma of its own existence, its efforts thwarted by the inscrutable machinations of fate.

And so, the ghost wandered the corridors of time, a silent observer amidst the tumult of the living world. With each passing epoch, it bore witness to the ebb and flow of human folly, its translucent gaze cast upon the tapestry of human experience. Though the years stretched on like an endless expanse of eternity, the ghost remained steadfast in its vigil, a silent sentinel in the grand theatre of existence.

Yet, amidst the ceaseless march of time, a glimmer of understanding began to dawn within the ghost’s ethereal heart. As it beheld the beauty and the tragedy of mortal life, the ghost found solace in the simple act of bearing witness. For in the quiet moments between the echoes of eternity, there lay a truth more profound than any mystery of the past.

And so, the ghost lingered on, its spectral form a testament to the enduring resilience of the human spirit. Though its own story remained untold, the ghost found purpose in the simple act of being a silent witness to the ever-changing dance of life and death.

In the dawn of its spectral existence, the ghost found the world a dull reflection of its former life. Familiarity clung to every shadow, each echo of the past serving as a reminder of the unyielding grip of memory. Yet, as the ages unfolded like the petals of a long-forgotten flower, the world began to metamorphose before the ghost’s translucent gaze.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the tapestry of existence shifted, weaving new threads of possibility into the fabric of reality. The mundane gave way to the extraordinary, the mundane yielding to the mysteries of the unknown. The ghost, once bound by the monotony of the familiar, found itself enraptured by the kaleidoscope of change unfurling around it.

Of all the epochs that dawned and faded like fleeting stars in the night sky, the ghost cherished most of those moments when mortals turned their gaze toward the realm of the unseen. Séances became rites of communion, a bridge between the realms of the living and the dead. In the flickering candlelight of these gatherings, the ghost found solace in the adulation of the living; each whispered invocation was a testament to its enduring presence.

Though the fervour of mortal fascination waned with the passing of time, a spark of curiosity still lingered in the hearts of a select few. Despite the pall of fear that shrouded the ghost’s ethereal form, it found comfort in the whispered tales of its own legend, a ghost story spun from the fabric of eternity.

In the hush of a séance long past, the ghost glimpsed the faint outline of its own salvation, a path towards oblivion paved with the echoes of forgotten whispers. Yet, in the face of liberation, it chose instead to linger in the liminal space between worlds, a silent sentinel amidst the ebb and flow of time.

For the ghost, the journey was not in pursuit of an end but rather a celebration of the endless possibilities that lay hidden within the ever-changing tapestry of existence. In the dance of life and death, it found purpose, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of the unknown.

The end

2. Writing: When a writer is unwilling to write

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

The other day, I found myself confronted with an unexpected task: a service requested my evaluation. Now, I have a penchant for assessing things—after all, why else would Death is Eternal review exist? So, naturally, I obliged. However, what initially seemed like a simple matter of assigning stars turned out to be more demanding. This service didn’t just want a rating; it demanded a review. My immediate reaction? “I don’t want to write,” I exclaimed. Jessica, my ever-present companion, couldn’t resist a quip: “A writer who doesn’t want to write—now that’s ironic.” Her jest lingered in my mind, sparking a contemplation that led me here.

Let me clarify: I knew Jessica was teasing, and I didn’t take her playful jab to heart. Yet, being prone to overthinking the most trivial matters while not giving a second thought to what truly matters, I couldn’t help but delve deeper. And in doing so, I stumbled upon a profound realization.

You see, as a writer, my relationship with words is profound. Writing isn’t merely a pastime or a profession; it’s a part of my essence. Each time I sit down to pen something, it’s not simply because I want to fill a blank page but because I have a message itching to express. It’s about weaving words into a tapestry of meaning, infusing each sentence with intention and purpose. There’s a depth to it that transcends mere composition. It’s about giving voice to thoughts, emotions, and ideas that yearn to be heard.

So, when faced with the task of churning out a review on demand, I balked. It felt like trivializing the very essence of what it means to be a writer. I couldn’t bring myself to reduce my craft to a mere checklist of pros and cons. Writing, to me, is an act of authenticity. It’s about tapping into the wellspring of creativity within, not merely to fulfill an obligation but to articulate something meaningful.

Being a writer isn’t just about stringing words together; it’s about infusing them with soul. Each piece I write is a reflection of my innermost thoughts, feelings, and experiences. Whether I’m crafting a narrative, sketching a character, or dissecting a complex emotion, every word is imbued with significance. It’s a labour of love, an endeavour that demands reverence for the power of language.

In essence, being a writer means holding words sacred. It’s about refusing to trivialize their potency by using them flippantly or without purpose. It’s a commitment to authenticity, an unwavering dedication to truth and meaning. So, when confronted with the prospect of writing something devoid of substance, I couldn’t bring myself to comply. For me, being a writer means honouring the sanctity of language, even in the face of trivial demands.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of Death is Eternal, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.