Nothing can we call our own but death

There is a sort of death that doesn't feel like death. It is more like a birth of enlightenment in your soul; a realization that kills whoever you might have been before that realization and you become someone new. Someone better. Someone you like a whole lot more than before you shed that snakeskin. Someone who has ripped those vices to pieces and steps forth, ready to look at the world again with new eyes. It is not a destruction of who you were, but another layer peeled away, letting you discover who you are. It is the crumbling of a wall hiding you from yourself.

There is nothing to call our own.... but death. The kind of death that helps us become friends with ourselves. The kind of death that puts us at peace with the thoughts in our heads, that reminds us however many people may pass through our lives, we will always be left with ourselves.