I am Death.
Victor Standish calls me Mother.
And I walk beside you as you live each moment.
Choose wisely. Breathe deeply.
Love that which so quickly shall pass through your fingers … for soon or late your steps will lead to me.
Oh, what to tell you that you would comprehend.
I am remiss.
Victor always starts with a quote to point the way of his thoughts.
Here is mine:
“Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below?”
Those lines were by Charles Lamb written upon the death of an infant soon after her birth.
Do not think ill of me. I give to each of you what I give to all – a lifetime. Make of it what you would.
What you love is mortal. What you love is not your own. What you love has its season like a rose in summer. Cherish the moment.
You believe you are heading towards summer.
You are wrong. Winter is coming.
Some of you wonder if your prose grows stale and flat, if you should continue. I cannot say. Mine are not mortal eyes. You can say better than I.
What I do say is this:
Your only rival is your potential.
Your only failure is failing to live up to your own possibilities.
As for "flat words," Samuel Clemens hated the “flat things” great men are reputed to have said on their deathbeds.
He wrote a fanciful praise of me to save him from that error.
Yet, when I bent over him, gathering up his spirit to my bosom,
his last words to his physician were incomplete:
“If we meet ….”
What was his thought? Who knows? What is your life? Uncertain. The only certainty is that we shall meet.
What are you doing with the time allotted you? Where are your ....
Excuse me. I am called elsewhere.
If you feel my hand upon your heart, you will know whose name was next on my list.
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