Every night I lay in my bed, I have all these|
thoughts that swirl in my head. Of a complex
set of fictional events that eventually lead
to my utterly tragic death.
And from there?.. I cry. Not simply because I
died but the details behind the situation. Of
all the unaccomplished aspiration, and the feelings
of desperation, frustration, purity in my favorite
I put myself in my own fictional shoes. Not because
I am emotional. Not because I am plagued by sloth.
But because this is something I choose for my personal
sanity. Or insanity if that's what you wish to call it.
I will call it a defense mechanism. An emotional shield
I build out of tears rolling down the cold corps of
Some may find all of this pretty surprising. The idea
of somebody like me choking herself out with in depth
thoughts of dying. But what they don't understand
is this cold demeanor is the frigid touch of a
corpse already stead fast in its coffin. I'm coughing
now. **Cough Cough Cough!** My emotional lungs already
black from the burning of any possible regret.
So if this day comes of my tragic, "She was much to young"
demise. I can look at it with cold emotionless eyes and
say "It's okay mom.. It's okay dad.." Truth is I have
seen it all before. I consider myself lucky as I'm not
coughing up blood on the floor. Or holding my
unrequited love in my arms, hands painted red staring down
the cold black abyss of my own deaths door.
In fact I'm pretty grateful. That my hugs can be from the
people I love. Like a sweet serenade in stead of being
buried in trenches sharing my last embrace with an
unwelcoming foreign blade. Because the way that it kisses
my flesh.. I'm crawling, shaking, everything turning black
when I know the truth is red. Everything turning cold..
The chaos has gone silent, but not lucky enough to quickly
end up dead.
I consider myself lucky that I lay here in this hospital
bed. Surrounded by people I love. Not alone, not in my house
but I feel at home. I'm a little scared now.. All of your
faces are blurring. Will you please hold my hand? I feel
like my head is.. I feel.. I-..
<b> (Releases a long quiet dying breath)
Every night before bed.. I imagine my own tragic death.
Truth is?.. I don't really know why. perhaps it's my
way of protecting myself. Because I am afraid..
Of being filled with regret when I die.
So in the end, no matter how awfully tragic my demise..
I hope beyond hope.. That in the end?
I hope that I am not surprised.