There are two types of deaths.

There’s the death that breaks something in you, and there’s the death that stirs transformation.
Although eruptive pain shows her battered head in every death; the death of breakage conceives a form of a fury pain that burns through the heart, leaving a permanent scar on the injured soul. It’s the type of death that leaves you at 3 am crying over someone who died ten years ago. It just never goes away; maybe it shouldn’t.
Everyone will feel. When you do, you’ll know it’s it.

Then there’s the death of transformation.
It hurts differently. It’s a more empathetic, in most cases, a sympathetic kind of pain.
It stirs you enough to feel the heat of demise yet, subtle enough to drag through the day without necessarily interference with your “real world.”
We’ve all felt this. Most people forget.
My first was Chioma. She exuded an aura of pure goodness. She was the type to keep a smile on your lips a few minutes longer the encounter you had with her. She was devoted to God, that’s how it seemed with the endless masses and benedictions. I should’ve told her I really liked her; it never crossed my mind.
Then she died.

My eyes clouded with burning tears, and that night, I sat with 2 am.
First, there was anger, then a sense of loss, then pity.
There was something else.
A distinct feeling of helplessness. The uncanny realization of man’s illusion of control.
However bewildered I felt, it faded after a week.
First times suck because there’s always a feeling of unfinished business.

Shola came next.
For 20 minutes after the rude shock of his death, my back remained stiffened. Stone cold, sunken fingertips, dry mouth and very white eyes. No tears.
It wasn’t emotional for me. Just stark shock, same as, a shock-fish looks in death.
He was the guy I used to know from work.

This is what I did know; he had solid goals. The type that accompanied vision boards and a strong inclination to positive thinking. He was a church fellow, in some way, most people are. He had found love, I heard he said, she completed him. There was going to be a wedding soon. He was also really good at his craft. He did the work to become a better person, a struggle mostly yet, the zeal was apparent.

That distinct feeling of helplessness returned, with two cousins.
I questioned the rationality of existence, not from the standpoint of anger against the creator but on the novelty of ordinariness.

It is strength of legs I trivialise; the sharpness of sight I torture with screen lights.
The hugs I always forget to give.
It is not pouring myself enough in the work I did, it becomes mundane.
It is the laziness in not pushing hard enough.
It is the ego of not knowing when to apologize or step back.
It’s those tiny moments I agree to burden my mind with worries from the past and anxiety over the future.
The disagreement I prefer to ignore than fix.
The friends I hardly check on.
The night sky I barely look at it. The hesitation to give something, anything.
The fear of being hurt, which still hurts either way.
The hoarding of things I never use. The erratic comparison with who reached where and when. Holding on for more money. Eating ice cream with the stupid fear of tighter jeans. The ceaseless complaining about the weather, or, the government. It’s never hot enough or cold enough. Hardly convenient enough.
It’s the list of goals; constructed intentions with deadlines, where if successfully executed, little chips of validation will be served. I agree those serve a purpose, I doubt it’s the purpose.
It’s every day I show up not being authentically myself.
People say Kobe Bryant lived a full life. A life worthy of emulation and full of inspiration. I say he showed up every day and made each day worth it.

The humbling effect of cluelessness over what tomorrow holds should free you.
Nothing’s ever that serious.

Derajoyce:
There are two types of deaths.

There’s the death that breaks something in you, and there’s the death that stirs transformation.
Although eruptive pain shows her battered head in every death; the death of breakage conceives a form of a fury pain that burns through the heart, leaving a permanent scar on the injured soul. It’s the type of death that leaves you at 3 am crying over someone who died ten years ago. It just never goes away; maybe it shouldn’t.
Everyone will feel. When you do, you’ll know it’s it.

Then there’s the death of transformation.
It hurts differently. It’s a more empathetic, in most cases, a sympathetic kind of pain.
It stirs you enough to feel the heat of demise yet, subtle enough to drag through the day without necessarily interference with your “real world.”
We’ve all felt this. Most people forget.
My first was Chioma. She exuded an aura of pure goodness. She was the type to keep a smile on your lips a few minutes longer the encounter you had with her. She was devoted to God, that’s how it seemed with the endless masses and benedictions. I should’ve told her I really liked her; it never crossed my mind.
Then she died.

My eyes clouded with burning tears, and that night, I sat with 2 am.
First, there was anger, then a sense of loss, then pity.
There was something else.
A distinct feeling of helplessness. The uncanny realization of man’s illusion of control.
However bewildered I felt, it faded after a week.
First times suck because there’s always a feeling of unfinished business.

Shola came next.
For 20 minutes after the rude shock of his death, my back remained stiffened. Stone cold, sunken fingertips, dry mouth and very white eyes. No tears.
It wasn’t emotional for me. Just stark shock, same as, a shock-fish looks in death.
He was the guy I used to know from work.

This is what I did know; he had solid goals. The type that accompanied vision boards and a strong inclination to positive thinking. He was a church fellow, in some way, most people are. He had found love, I heard he said, she completed him. There was going to be a wedding soon. He was also really good at his craft. He did the work to become a better person, a struggle mostly yet, the zeal was apparent.

That distinct feeling of helplessness returned, with two cousins.
I questioned the rationality of existence, not from the standpoint of anger against the creator but on the novelty of ordinariness.

It is strength of legs I trivialise; the sharpness of sight I torture with screen lights.
The hugs I always forget to give.
It is not pouring myself enough in the work I did, it becomes mundane.
It is the laziness in not pushing hard enough.
It is the ego of not knowing when to apologize or step back.
It’s those tiny moments I agree to burden my mind with worries from the past and anxiety over the future.
The disagreement I prefer to ignore than fix.
The friends I hardly check on.
The night sky I barely look at it. The hesitation to give something, anything.
The fear of being hurt, which still hurts either way.
The hoarding of things I never use. The erratic comparison with who reached where and when. Holding on for more money. Eating ice cream with the stupid fear of tighter jeans. The ceaseless complaining about the weather, or, the government. It’s never hot enough or cold enough. Hardly convenient enough.
It’s the list of goals; constructed intentions with deadlines, where if successfully executed, little chips of validation will be served. I agree those serve a purpose, I doubt it’s the purpose.
It’s every day I show up not being authentically myself.
People say Kobe Bryant lived a full life. A life worthy of emulation and full of inspiration. I say he showed up every day and made each day worth it.

The humbling effect of cluelessness over what tomorrow holds should free you.
Nothing’s ever that serious.

Are you sure you couldn't have passed your message in less than 5 sentences?
Well,it taught me that
1. My life is not really my own,I don't really have the power to keep it, unless I am deceiving myself.
2. Life is very uncertain. One minute you can be the happiest man alive,next minute tragedy can struck that will make you wish you are dead.
3. Life is vanity really, famous, successful,rich yet all these couldn't come to his aid when death came knocking.
4. Be humble, be good to people especially the less fortunate, believe in God.