Death Is But The Next Great Adventure Novels & Stories

Never Again 🌷 “It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and re-adjust the way you thought of things.”

peace of mind The soul never dies Total absence of fear No trace of regret no rings on your ear So no need to spend Yet you get the best. (Vanity upon vanity) all is vanity Death is not the end Death, the great equalizer, Takes us all in its grasp, Rich or poor, weak or strong, None can escape its clasp. It's a mystery, a puzzle, A journey we must take alone, Leaving behind loved ones, And the life that we have known. But death is not the end,

AND YET, DEATH IS THE DESTINATION WE ALL SHARE. NO ONE HAS EVER ESCAPED IT, AND THAT IS HOW IT SHOULD BE, BECAUSE DEATH IS VERY LIKELY THE SINGLE BEST INVENTION OF LIFE. IT'S LIFE'S CHANGE AGENT. IT CLEARS OUT THE OLD TO MAKE WAY FOR THE NEW -> STEVE JOBS. I poured salt on the mark. At first nothing happened. I was satisfied it was all in my head—right now I have to make up something to say so Harper won't have to bite off my head.

Our deeds, our utterances our beliefs can make or mar us when we leave the earth. 'Oh… You know, God is great, perfect and full of love! The idea that when one dies, he stays in the grave, the end of his existence, his consciousness is appalling, terrible. It’s a great thing that life continues.’ Her eyes held his lovingly, happiness beating in her chest.

She lived from the heart, lived with every fiberShe hadn’t always done it, though. After her favorite people had done it, Helen too had given up life, as if it were a low-paid job. Death is a funny thing. When someone dies, the sun rises the next morning, as if nothing has happened, and punctually it sets again at night. Even though someone is dead, the train platforms are just as busy as before. Someone has died, and the people simply go on with their daily lives. They meet up with loved ones in the evening, and continue to complain about the coffee that burns their lips, the boss who won't give them a break, the partner who almost suffocates them with love.

And death. “It’s just comfort,” Speedy said. He was alert that night, an unusual change from his drooling, incontinent self. Mykel thought about candles and about how they burned brightest just before they went out. “I don’t know if Woods would approve.” “Just half an hour. Help me walk in. I’m weak. She’s scared. The little one’s dying.” “Look, you should be resting.” “I’ll rest when I’m dead, boy,” Speedy said, letting go of Mykel’s arm. “And you’ll rest too someday. ‘Til then, let us live. No woman should cry alone in the night, not on Christmas.”

"I grew up nearby. I don't know which saint it belongs to, but the elderly in my family said that this shrine is really magical. Be careful what you wish for or promise in front of the saint because it will come true." 'Zach, you would do anything to get me. I bet you never thought that all those sweet promises that you made back then were the reason that got you killed and gave me another life.'

Even if I didn't want Elena's grave beside mine, she was still buried next to me in the end. At least I was going back to my own world soon and didn't have to be tormented by these people after death. "Two dead? Good. Only one cold devotee left." "I've got nothing left to say. I just hope Daniel will be happy in his next life instead of running into these people." All the comments were now on my side. Deep down, I did feel a bit of warmth upon knowing this. My spirit gradually dispersed, and after a very, very long time, I finally woke up.

Stephen's eyes close, his heart open to the mystery, as he breathes in the sweet scent of the blooms, and the silence of the cemetery speaks. Stephen's inner voice whispers the truth, a gentle breeze that stirs the depths of his soul. "Man comes here and goes to the unknown world," it reminds him. "Nothing is in his hand, for the Planner has already scripted his journey, with its share of triumphs and tribulations." He nods to himself, a sense of acceptance settling within. "I must play my part, to the best of my abilities, and then depart this mortal realm. My stay here is temporary, a fleeting moment in the grand tapestry of time."

"Stories? Experiences?" "Think about it," Whitmore said, warming to his subject with the enthusiasm of a professor who'd found an eager student. "Death is eternal, unchanging, always the same. But human lives? Human lives are chaos and choice, joy and suffering, love and loss. Every life is a story, and stories are the only currency that can surprise an immortal being."