It is our soul. Bright and shining. Yes, I know, you have been taught all of your life that the soul is some mysterious, hidden being, like a cloaked child secreted in a corner of your mind, but that is a lie. Death is soul. Anyone who is truly alive knows this. He can feel Death staring from his eyes every moment, watching, reminding him, making him cherish each breath. Sunrises are beautiful because Death knows sunsets. Spring is glorious because Death knows winter. Why, then, do so few of us see the murderer within? The terrors of the world are not outside. They are his. The dark abyss that is always about to swallow us belongs to him. He is curious, a wanderer, walking in the emptiness, his steps silent. His cries mute. His grief unending. We all glimpse him at one time or another, his shadow tiptoeing around inside us, and are afraid.
