We can be immortal.
We can dance around the pearly gates, sneak past the reaper’s scythe, give the finger to the Angel of Death.
In fact, we already do. For millennia we have slipped the chains of our mortality.
We are not fallible beings but shape-shifters, merely undertaking a transformation from one kind to the next.
We do not die.
We bite the dust. We give up the ghost. We push up daisies. These are not the actions of people dead in the ground but of breathing, pulsing humans.
Could a dead man pop his clogs? Has a cadaver ever fallen off his horse? Have you even once witnessed an actual corpse going to the big morgue in the sky?
We are illusionists. In our euphemistic language lies the secret to living on and on, to cashing in our chips instead of suffering total organ failure.
We speak of death not in absolutes, not in fatal embolisms or massive heart attacks but as darkness and shadow and night. Death is a bat, death is a raven, death is a vulture.
We do not have to perish but merely shuffle off, pass on, embrace the big sleep.
We are not passive skeletons inside terminal flesh, but nervous systems with language to save our sinful souls. We can stand tall and shriek our allegorical anti-death, our cloaked and staunch refusal to be whisked from our beds into the cold cases of our coffins.
We will not die. We will kick the bucket or buy the farm but never cease the necessary biology to sustain our life.
We must embrace our wilful ignorance of death. Our refusal of it.
We are merely flicking a switch, turning off the lights. Taking our final curtain call. Not dying, but shouting, hollering. Joining the heavenly choir.
Our singularly metaphorical death only exists because of its fundamental humanness.
And in that, it is not death at all, but life.