Do you think Donne would like this version?
Death, chill the fuck out. Your ego is out of control. Just because some whiny ass bitches think you’re all that, you… Well, you’re not.
Wanna know why you’re not? Well, you’re prancing around with your scythe and your robe, being all scary, but the people you took didn’t really die. And neither will I.
Think about it: all the “little deaths” we experience on earth, like orgasm and sleep, are actually really great. If those are the mini versions of death, the real deal must be even better.
You may think you’re doing something awful and scary when you take the best of us, but you’re really just rewarding them with rest and relief from all the troubles of life.
Truth is, you’re not even a free agent. You do the bidding of others, you come when you’re called, and you hang out with some sketchy company. Is that really something to be proud of?
And it’s not like you’re the only path to bliss or dreamless ease. We can get that through other means, so why do you think you’re so special?
You’re like a room we visit. But we’re in one door and out the other, because life is continual cycle that we get to explore. Death, you’re not a destination; you’re just a rest stop along the way.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.