Shepherd Deane

None of my writing is made using AI. Full stop. This is entirely my own creative work and I made this account like 10 minutes ago as I am writing this.

By Shepherd Deane

When Death comes to town, do they relish their task? Do they feel sorrow and guilt over their grim appointment? Do they feel completely unequivocal as — no matter how rich or how poor, how good or how bad, — they will eventually knock on every door. How do they view themselves? Are they a force of nature, or an individual power?

When we think of Death, what do we see? Some behold a hooded figure, holding the scythe of the peasants who suffered and died en masse. All under the ruthless and unforgiving greed of their highborn neighbours. Some picture a man in casual clothing: a regular person endowed with the infinite task of expiration. Some, a man in a suit and tie. The last I find the most intriguing as, despite his morbid charge, he works with a business-as-usual attitude. This draws a similarity with the consumeristic, corporate world we have come to call home. This serves as a reminder that, in all aspects, we are not in control. It is a man in a suit and tie who controls the world - who controls us. We do not like this depiction. We want to imagine ourselves as masters of our own reality, as gods among the lesser beings surrounding us. Yet, we still bow to those in the suit and tie.

Does this image startle? Maybe, maybe not. Many fear Death for he is the end, the termination of being, the ceasement of existing. Total black. This fear is why many religions and cultures have an alternative: heaven, reincarnation, ghosts. Even hell, a realm of eternal suffering and pain is better than the terrifying jaws of utter, complete nothing: the permanent loss of what little control we like to imagine we have.

Sometimes, when we look into a sunset, at the ceiling above us before we sleep, into the eyes of someone we love, we think, ‘This will end someday’: But when we keep going, when we say to the void, ‘Well, you can’t have me yet, so allow my wallowing in imagination a while longer,’: we show the true resilience of our minds: the complete ability to shut away things that we will always have to face. Just like heaven, just like hell, there will always be something: even knowing there isn’t.

This willful ignorance is fending off a form of cosmophobia, ordinarily the fear of space. This idea that, no matter how far you go, you will just keep going: never stopping, never going back. Just endless black. The terror of realising that you can do nothing, you cannot move, you cannot see, hear nor think. The total annihilation of everything you have ever known. It is this lack of control that startles, not Death himself. Death is simply a gateway, a middle man, a guide, a thief. If we fear this, we may forget the black – the forever nothing – and we may be able to live on, unbound by the fear of the forever void. We may be able to master our own world: a world without suffering. For we are all the peasants, and we crave the power of the scythe to be given onto our unworthy hand. We, alone, shall wield this authority. We will don the suit and tie.

By Shepherd Deane

When one reminisces about past events, are they glad they got to experience it, or are they sad they can never experience it again? Of course this statement is flawed in that, as every conscious human knows, the past is not a positive thing for many. Yet despite this surreal, universal experience of longing to be in the past, while being called to the future to leave what is done behind, we still do not understand what it is we are experiencing.

Time is a strange process as we will never know if the past truly happened or not, as we can only experience the present. An ever changing, ever flowing river that we cannot help but get swept away by. Every time we see a dry bank to rest on, we get carried away by this unstoppable flow. This river is cold, yet comforting, as even in not knowing where we will end up, we will always leave behind all that we have done.

Some try to fight the currents, to bend them to their command, to control the River of Time is to control life itself, but this struggle only makes the waters rage with renewed vigour. It is this desperation to return to the way things once were that draws many away from simply resting in the waves, allowing themselves to be carried by the constant rush of the aquamarine sprays. To be at peace with the shallow, sprinting frenzy of the babbling brook and the clear calm of the forest stream.

By Shepherd Deane

How do you not stand in awe at the world around you? How do you go on with your daily routine as if the world surrounding you is not one of everlasting and intense glory? How I ask, do you withhold a gasp at the staggering beauty of your surroundings?

I ask this genuinely and without satire, for I gaze upon the marvelous mechanical melancholy which comprises our modern existence with fascination. We travel on horses of fire, metal and noise, nothing like our nature bound forefathers. We no longer are held back by the abilities of mortal engines. We have unleashed our imagination upon the planet with all of its horrifying majesty.

Does the complex yet flawless turns and twists in confluences of clouds above not interest you? Does the utter insanity of being able to simply think of doing something, and have it within your grasp no matter how fanciful it may be, not confuse nor amaze?

I know the world as a wonder,

Of fire, toil, and thunder,

I know the world as a wonder,

Of the jesters witty blunder,

I know the world as a wonder,

Why must it pull me asunder

I ask in hope, of simple explanation, why the cosmos is so vast and immeasurable to my smothered mind. Why does it seem only just that it should conflagrate my thoughts and ideals. Why must I forever see, hear and think of all that moves,  and of all that lies immovable, and everything in between. Enamour me with the act of being, simply and thoughtlessly. Why must I breathe? Why must I think? Why can I not stand in utter silence, from my body and mind, eyes and ears, hands and feet?

I reach out far and I can feel,

The rushing wind, the sharpened steel,

I close my eyes and I can hear,

The buzzing bee, the child's fear,

I open my eyes and I can see,