Mortality is a fact that can only be examined from the outside in terms of this world. It is a concept generally undiscoverable in this modern nation not for the fact of its ever presence probability, so much as for its apparent absence from plain view. Death portrayed in moribund Hollywood dramas seldom presumes to linger for more than the increment of a final a breath or two. Perhaps a random spasm of an extremity for a beat or two at best. The stricken protagonist simply defaults to another onstage prop that the other actors, still scripted to perform dialogue, must make a convincing reaction to. The actuality of the phenomena does not encourage as convincing an exposition of despair beyond external pantomime and sheer volume. How can this fool’s play, in any of its visually faithful theatrical forms, offer useful insight to that particular moment when beyond one’s ability to fully comprehend, the lifelong animate becomes hopelessly no longer so?
And perhaps this is why it’s reality is ever lacking within the lexicon of our modern sensibilities. Most are so far removed from experiencing the palpable evidence of its almost comical simplicity. Like the curse of an infernal light switch casually contemplated, the trigger, once depressed, being impossible to be drawn back. The deed complete and that proverbial everything that was long hoped for, or seemingly one day near in the future of being so, now vanishing completely for all time to come along with the personality who espoused it. The literate fantasies of ghosts and other supernatural intermediaries supposedly in attendance, as with overplayed theatrical expositions, no longer able to convince in that infinite momentary transition and its accompanying stunned silence. And above all, those monumentally convincing plots and ill-founded superstitious notions, efficiently defrocked of any devious complexity by the ease of with which someone that you’ve known becomes merely something.