The art of dying is the most difficult of all arts. Incomparably more difficult than the art of living, which is considered not easy. This art can not be practised and this simple fact makes it so difficult – this is also the reason why there are no masters of dying. Sometimes, not often, masters of living can be met, because the art of living can be practised. Of course, you can prepare yourself for dying, like you can prepare yourself to play improvised music, but no matter how good or bad you are prepared, you will never know what and how you will play – this is the nature, the charm and curse of improvisation. Sometimes you can play better, sometimes you can play worse, but you always can play once again, either better or worse. You can't repeat dying. Beautiful improvisations happen much more often than beautiful dyings. Incomparably more often. What a pity. Unfortunately, these are but well arranged words, nothing more. Well arranged words are always something more than well arranged words only. With no doubt they are something more than badly arranged words, since badly arranged words are something less. This argument can be continued endlessly. Alas, every combination of words is but something more or something less than what it attempts to describe. Let us take dying, for example. Most probably this word means here something more than just the moment of death. It covers also the approaching to death, the process of getting near to it. If so, then all our life is but approaching to death – living is but dying.... Anyway, these are also but smartly combined words. Nothing more. And something more as well. A cat was dying beautifully. White cat with grey tail. Nobody knew she was dying. Probably the cat herself didn't know either. And when she already knew, she disappeared. However she doesn't deserve to be called master, because she made two mistakes. Although she found a shelter in bushes where she had never before hidden herself, to let nobody look for her just there, the bushes were growing too near to the house. Although she left nothing after her, she forgot to take the memories of her. This is how I imagine my own dying: I just disappear and nobody knows what has happened to me – then everybody starts talking: oh! he has disappeared! where is he? must have died..... HE HAS GONE AWAY.... oh! he died so beautifully! he died as if not dying.... died without dying.... Why nothing can happen in the way we imagine it? We can imagine so beautifully.... <<<