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For something we fear greatest of all, it's awfully strange that we're addicted to it. When someone dies, we react to it in a way that a person lives in someone else's experiences, for they did not gain enough self esteem to value their own experiences. It's something that shares the form of abusing drugs .-. how we find ourselves going back into the monster's lair with the same hope of fixing ourselves after such endeavors were proven futile the first dozen instances. Death is the hidden heroine in our lives .-. it does reveal ourselves more than heroine, however. The place death is accepted at is entirely contorted compared to the true essence of death .-. the room where death is oftenly mourned over is commercialized and computerized in a way that it's never the same as burying your loved one with a tightly knit group of those you love .-. where nobody else can siphon the energy that had been driven out of a once conscious vessel of experiences somewhere out in a truly mundane and natural atmosphere .-. where you do not have to spend any money, and only time that's worth your while. Otherwise you'll find yourself in a quiet room along with a commercial person that has zero experience standing next to your dead loved one lying motionless in a casket .-. repeating the same emotionless, irrelevant speech about your loved one, while you either are keeping your emotions in, or drawing them out on the wooden bench .-. surrounded by very few loved ones. The rest being people that are using this death to fill their own voids they had the chance to reconcile before.