no sense of passing
A tree grows from a single sapling that lands on the ground. Slowly, it seeps in the nutrient of the ground that mother nature kindly provides. From that sapling, emerges a great tree that bears mighty thick branches and lush leaves. Over the broad horizon, comes a storm. The storm spreads its arms wide and sends tendrils of death and decay over the lands. Its reach as wide as a thousand leagues and anything that may have such bad fate to meet with it should be witnessing the last image of its existence. The great tree, witnessing the destruction of the land about it is scared but unable to move. Its roots have grown long and deep. It would seem that it has been fixated to the spot which is has spent its life growing and strengthening. Now it's strength shall turn against it. When the storm hits, it too shall be spent and withered by the touch of those wicked tendril. In a devastated demeanor, the tree awaits its doom.
The storm reaches beside the tree and engulfs it within seconds. The brown bark turns to a withered black and its leaves curl as they are drained of moisture. One by one, the leaves fall to the ground. With each passing moment, the number of leaves remaining on the already dying tree halves.
The last leaf falls, turning to ash as it hits the darkened earth. Alas, so is the story of a man. He was strong to the last moment but stubborn as well. Ironically, his stubborness lead to his demise. Likened to the tree, his death was always rooted to the ground - a disaster waiting to happen.
His passing was anticipated, a death so untimely to him but expected to others. In the end, he was just another stubborn old man. His death was meaningless. It was...
nothing
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