Holy Cutter

Orest

Virgil Abloh once wrote that “grass is greener in the grave-yard”. I keep a keychain with this saying in my room, next to a miniature cross and the remains of a four-leaf clover my

grandfather gave me. My grandfather flew from this plane of existence long ago. It does not

leave me tearful every time, but the pang of remembrance is what grounds me. Darkness is the

prelude to light, as was the be- ginning of our universal being, and as will be the end. Death is a

prism through which every- body’s light can be held up and examined through.

Cultures are decided by what they choose to leave as relics, and stories become woven through these devices. Religion finds itself dictated by its idols who reign with the air of a scythe

over followers. In nature, we find death every single day, and yet, death is not what keeps

anything back.

Death exists as a final notice, something to succumb to after a journey has been fulfilled. Between civilizations, tribes, apostles, hermits, and regular, mundane people. We are not privy to

the greener grass in the grave- yard after we leave, so we de- fine ourselves by the Gods and leaves

we encounter while we still are able to breathe. Outside, the pitter patter of the rain lessens,

a clover falls, and a voice from above chortles. Something that makes the world feel a little freer.