Status Updates From The Death of Ivan Ilych and...

After The Ball is ravishingly romantic since the starting steps, which establishes a cunning illusion for what would inevitably unfold, beauty leading beholders to their existential unbecoming like an oceanic voyage sailing in a straight line, spotting magical sights and sensorial stimulation but at the spectre-called encore toppling over the World’s Edge like an ancient pre-Aristotle adventure; love and loathing.

The frontlining novella forces the reader, far and wide across fields of grass that are greener or not as green notwithstanding, to show candor as they observe life from the perspective of nearing death. I, myself, have resorted to illness for a type of attention without conditions; love that means care, manifesting my recovery whilst not remembering the expectations and disappointments. For me, that is true love.

Averageness at its conflicting albeit coexistable state of affairs is the balancing act, a magnum opus mentality, of living a modest lifestyle - accepting available community and acknowledging earthly, frequently material attractions - and getting to the timestamp of dying in acceptance of such surface-level sentiments. Every average person is entitled to love and lash out at things howevet they so desire, averagely.

All prefacing and establishing abstract ethical grounds for their coming primary performance - The Death of Ivan Ilyich - the initial chapters and half are loyal and longing callbacks to the first pages’ discussion of bravery, lightening a nuanced narrative that lays down a belief system of being brave by knowing what is right and of utmost value to oneself than committing to a legacy through statistical sacrifice.

An unfolding legend of a village cry festival had devotedly crawled and managed out the marshes to be a dazzling, radiant promise that some good awaits, then lost the dark magic cloak off its slippery and snakish shoulders to show its true, soul-lurking and graphite-colored funnel into utterly wasted morality once, twice, a thousand repetitions more; regret and guilt of judgement imposed are what it truly is.