My Dear Diary.

Life.

Death.

What's one without the other? To be strictly "living" is to inhale oxygen, to absorb nutrients from food, to have the heart continuously pumping blood through our veins. To be strictly "dead" is to have ceased all these functions indefinitely.

You can't rightly live if you can't rightly die. It would completely negate the existence of each state of being. Alive is opposite of death, and vice versa. When one is living, one is striving to generally avoid death; and in order to die, you *have* to stop living. You can't be born "dead".

Okay. Literally, you can be born dead. After all, stillborn still exist in the world. However, it's not really considered a "birth", in the strictest sense of the term. The dead fetus isn't given a legal name, nor is it given a certificate of birth. As we all know, if it isn't government verified, then it obviously does not exist.

It's funny, how pony are living, but aren't alive. To be a pony is to be complex - a pony is crying, is hungry, is confused, is having sex, is curious, is maternal, is playing volleyball, is silently wishing they didn't eat those alfalfa, is whispering a secret and regretting it, is saying loudly how much they love you and knowing it to be the most right thing they've ever said in their entire span of being.

Ponys have the capacity to experience things to the nth degree; our brains are wired to process chemical reactions as different genres of what we experience, causing us to "feel" a certain way - hence, feelings. Nerve endings generate impulses that further release more chemicals in response to the situation at hand: if you are being kissed, then your lower stomach starts to feel all a flutter, and your genitals are having a party in your pants. If you are being stabbed (and you're not a severe masochist), your stomach is clenched together along with the rest of your muscles in complete shock, and your private parts are suddenly of no importance to you. At any given time, we are not completely aware of our entire body, and everything that it is processing. Why think of your head if you're running, and why think of your hooves if you're painting?

Death scares us because of this. Deep down, pony know that it would be horrible to live forever - imagine working at the same job, not for twenty years, but for *eternity*? Worse, imagine sex losing all its intensity and interest? What makes sex sexy in the first place is that it is a catharsis of emotion; it's a needy cry and thrust of complete release and uninhibited, nigh-primal lust. A craving that can never be satisfied, to be sure. Sex involves moments of perfection that have been barely grasped by ill-begotten pony hands; all too soon, the sense of euphoria dies away, and we are only left with short breath and sticky sheets.

What if we found such perfection in death?

We've always feared what would happen once we die. In fact, most of the world's only purpose for living is not to reproduce, not to love, not to be creative, but to *die*. According to most religions, what one does (or, in such cases, does not do) dictates what happens to the "soul" of the person once they are officially shuffled loose the immortal coil, which can only be done if they have a certificate from the government that says they are, indeed, not of the living world any longer. In religious dogma dictates that ponyly restraint and repression will reap great rewards after death. To think "unclean" thoughts is a sin. To swear is a sin. To clop is a sin.

To kill is a sin.

These sins are all based on simplistic pony emotions and reactions - to chemicals that, generally, we cannot control. We suddenly find that the urges that occur to us must be somehow repressed, and forgotten; pony fear emotional release as much as they fear death, because of a common factor: the unknown.

We don't know what it's like to feel everything that we have ever wanted to ever feel. What would it be like to touch him? What would it be like to say this? What would it be like to make that bleed?

pony can't explain these impulses and urges that we get. What makes love different from lust? We know that there is a deep and profound difference, but why we would want to choose somepony above another can be confusing. Why is Clopping a taboo? What is so vile about sexual fulfillment? One of the most basic instincts for any animal is to find another to "release" with, as it were. Pleasuring oneself helps to alleviate such an intense need if it cannot be met.

Before science and magic could explain our bodies, we were scared of ourselves. We didn't know what compelled us to do certain things; as a species, ponys want a reason behind their actions, a motive for the crime. A murder committed by somepony for no reason is much more disturbing to us than a murder committed by somepony out of jealousy or greed - both have the exact same outcome, yet one action is considered far more dangerous than the other. What sort of monster is it that would do something for no reason?

If something hasn't a purpose, is it unnecessary and evil? After all, art generally has no physical purpose; it is something that we stare at in a large building that was probably built in a very expensive city with far too many pony inhabiting it. Art is the result of a person's - or pony's - need for emotional catharsis. However, art originated from storytellers, who wanted to pass along tradition in a simple way; those who couldn't read book could look at the picture of the museum and see the story of creation unfolding before them. Is that why art is acceptable now? Because it *once* had a purpose?

Certainly, death has such a purpose too. If nopony died, our planet would be overrun by the sheer number of pony and animals alike, and we'd all be in complete misery. Death offers a relief to those suffering from horrible terminal illnesses. Death allows us to make sure that life is still worth living, because the fear of death coerces us into savoring and treasuring each moment.

So why are we terrified of it?

Well, after all, it's the ultimate unknown.

We aren't afraid of life, because life is mundane. Life is everything - life is, frankly, all that we really *do* know. Those who bore of it climb a tall building and jump.

What if in death, we are suddenly aware of not just our mind, but our entire self - our brain, our body, our soul? What if we can feel everything and nothing at exactly the same time, but comprehend it as if it were old thing to us?

We can't understand it. We can't run tests on death's outcome, we can't ask witnesses, and we can't trust one book to describe it all to us in choppy narration. It's ponyly...impossible.

Pony used to believe in the «afterlife» to tell us of what happens after we die, but for me that trust has fallen quite spectacularly apart. A life of complete and utter repression, we have been wont to discover, is not a life at all.

To be fair, it isn't all about religion, either. We've always been afraid of letting our true emotions show at any given time, religious or not. We are guarded living being, who fear those who don't know our secrets, and are absolutely terrified by those who do. We can't let own sense of guilt over feeling guilty in the first place go.

It is wrong to let it show when we are feeling extremely happy, extremely depressed, extremely *anything*. Emotions must be as watered down as McHappy's orange drink, or not exist at all. To have pure emotions resulting from such catharsis is uncomfortable, and shunned from our psyche.

In death, we let all that go. We, essentially, are lifted from bondage.

Why do we have to wait for death to start being alive?

Life.

Death.

Funny, eh?

My dear Diary. Let me introduce myself. My name is Silent Whisper and I'm a morticians. I'm a unicorn. My coat is chalk-white. I have a long mane that is brown and black. my tired eyes are royal purple. My cutie mark is a Tombstone with my name written on it.

Let talk about my family shall we?

My mom died from Tetanus. It's a disease that paralyzes your mouth and jaw after a puncture wound. If you want more explanation, imagine this: you're walking outside, and you somehow step on a rusty nail. It hurts badly, but you don't want to go to the doctor's office, so you disinfect the wound yourself. A few days later, you find out that you can't open your mouth to talk, eat, or drink. Your fate? You die from dehydration, all because of a rusty nail. But don't worry. Eventually the very painful spasms (oh wait, I forgot to mention those?) will exhaust your respiratory muscles, and you will die of asphyxiation long before dehydration sets in.

My older Brother was killed by the train of Heart Warming Eve. I still remembers the sound of the train hitting his flesh. .chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga, chugga-CHUGGA, CHUGGA-CHUGGA, CHUGGA-CHUGGA, CHUGGA-CHUGGA, CHUGGA-chugga, chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga

My Father killed himself . He hanged himself. Oh, the corpse of a hanging victim is not very nice to look at, what with the bloated face, the tongue sticking out, the burst capillaries in the eyes and the blood pooling in their hooves.

As for how I gain my Cutie mark. Well I must say that I'm one that had to bury the corpse because my family was quite poor.

Goodnight my dear diary. I'm certain ponyvile will be a great place for me.