Death is an everlasting curse, an
inevitable fate, a path in which we can never divert from. Each day we age and
we must undergo this painful gradual process of depletion.
In “Till It Finishes
What It Does” by Brenda Hillman, the speaker describes the excruciating route
to death. “Where is the meaning, the old man asked. The night nurse had put on
his little frowning socks; he lays on his lifebed, in the dusk, holding the
tail of comet.” The ill man is near death yet he still struggles to live and
continues to persevere.
“The tiny valve of the pig beat inside our father’s heart…like meaning & its tributaries, nothingness & art…”
It is
portrayed that he has had a heart transplant. However, meaning lies not in the
fact that her father now has a pig’s heart, but in the blood, the life force
going through him. He still is strong and valiant in his pursuit of survival.
“The animal…is not the decoration you sought; its beauty runs without your will. It drives the mystical heart.”
In the following, “I’m writing this with a
pharmaceutical pen,” executes the growing dependency on nutrients provided
through drugs and pills in order to assist a slowly dying individual. Hillman
abnormally reveals the depressing course of life. Death.
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