We often 'trip the light fantastic' with our tongues, languishing over our details of life, wondering just how wonderful would the end of life be . . . death, actual death. Yet most have no idea what those feelings could remotely entail, but rather think 'oh, it's an end to the day, to the day's troubles, to the current moment of pain,' and yet know they will wake upon the morrow and things will not have changed. And they are still alive. Alive, breathing, living, and facing the same things that had them pondering the release of death just the night before. So what is the draw? What is this pain that propels them forward with the idea that death is the escape they crave? The release they need? The solution to the unbearable pain that courses through the synapses of their brains, the nerves at the tips of their fingers, and the blood that washes endlessly over the membranes of their heart?
