People aren't afraid of death.
People are afraid of living.
It is in death that people realize what they missed by running from living.
And it is through living, truly living, that death comes easily.
Earned through hard work and earnestness.
How does one describe me or anyone? Is it through listed traits? Through example? Through careful metaphor? Through descriptions of life and deeds? Or will none of those ever actually work?
So what goes here? In the absence of adequate description, there lies only hints, innuendo, and seductive motions in the right direction.
Or is that not even what goes here? Do I really belong on this page, or is that just a futile narcissism in the endless struggle that is existence? But anything I put here has me in it. It is more futile to leave me out because everything undeniably has my print upon it, my style. It quickly leaves my hands and enters everyone's, but I always stay within it, even if I can never tell you what to do with it. My every word, sentence, syllable, and paragraph. They are undeniably mine, if not through ownership, through relation.
But, of course, in questioning this, I have revealed myself. You just need to search for me.