It's an odd feeling when someone dies. From a third person's POV I mean. Like those random deaths you hear of super stars, or when you flick through the obituary section of the newspaper. It's a bit weird isn't it. It's like the world stops for just a bit. Not long enough to cause a fuss, but short enough. It's like a winter's breeze on a midsummer's night, or a summer's breeze on a winter's day. It's not pleasent, but it's not rude. We know the propensity is there. The certainty of death breeds the uncertainty of life. But what is supposedly a vulgar necessity of life is shrugged off as a subtlety at that instant. And it's not sad. Not particularly. It's more pity. We think about who the deceased was when he was alive. What they did. Were they law abiding citizens. Was he a prick. How's the family coping. Was it expected. Did he have a religion. Did he really believe in God. Did he do what he wanted too.

Then it leaves us. We read the next page of the papers. Or some headline on the global financial crisis attracts our attention.

I find that aspect of death intriguing. It's a lingering feeling. It disappears conciously, but it stays. Subconciously, you're thinking about old people, they're kids, are they happy, are they alone. But I'm awed sometimes at the simplicity of it. It takes a woman 9 months to conceive. Years to become who you are. And gone in an instant. That's one heck of a process, dying.

But ultimately, we move on. C'est la vie. C'est la guerre.