111: Sinew

"Do not go gentle into that good night Old age should burn and rave at close of day Rage, rage against the dying of the light" When the poet wrote this, the “rage” here was intended to summon a hot, burning anger, a fire exploding unstoppably in the loins and tearing up through every sinew of the body, erupting in a deafening roar as clenched fists feverishly grasp the reins of the uncontrollable stallion of fate as it brays in deafening gibberish, galloping towards the black chasm of death. But, any actual rage at this time, and the one universally shared by every living being at their dying moment, is not this gallant, brash and roaring rage. No. In every case, it is the jarring and pathetic whimper of a soul being flushed away, a futile screech of nails in the downward shute. A shrill echo that’s all over before anyone even hears it. And that’s the way it is. That’s the best death you can get. And we all get the same one.