It seems unlikely that anyone would thrive in the midst of a worldwide pandemic, and yet here I sit, and here I grow, a lot like that pesky weed that keeps cropping up in the crack in the sidewalk. In the most odd environment, life is present.
Death is an incontrovertible part of life.
Why do we struggle so? What is it about this final veil--the veil which separates forever the living from the dead--that causes us to beat our flying fists against it so firmly, so resolute with no result? If death is a part of life, why does it hurt so much?