What is dead may never die. The dead continue to live with us even after they are dead. They still dwelve in the inside of our minds. I started thinking about death a lot recently after the death of my aunt, a couple of months back. She had raised me as her own son, taught me algebra when I was young. As an English teacher herself, she used to give me practise exercises through her Wren&Martin handbook. This has passed of a strange grammar-nazi effect on me, making me obsessed with semicolons and punctuation marks even now. What makes us heavy, filled with grief when there is a demise of our loved one? Strangely though, why do children not cry when death stares at them?I have an hunch that children look at the world with the mindset of infinite. It could be possible that their understanding of the infinite, prevents them from grieving. Could it be that they don't perceive the dead person as dead, as the memory of the deceased continues to live in their own way? This quote from [[Kurt Vonnegut]]'s Slaughterhouse Five best sums up this feeling. ![[Slaughterhouse-Five#^944adf]] [[Milan Kundera]] talks about how, if French revolution were to recur eternally, would we be less proud of what Robespierre contributed? ![[Hiking With Nietzsche#^8a39e9]] On a similar note, if anyone were to die eternally and keep coming back, would we actually grieve? ![[The Unbearable Lightness of Being#^394f9d]] Grief is not a bad thing. One must not be ashamed of it. In fact, as a man, with all the due social conditioning, it's so difficult to shed a tear, that we desperately seek ways for catharsis. I'm struggling, but I'm striving to remember her, through her actions and memories. She can be very much alive in the past. Even if she is not alive in the present.