Before we move on, I want to confess something: Death is a gift.
Death is a gift.
Death is a gift for me to take with both hands – think of no one but myself, and how small space I occupy in this galaxy. Life is futile, one day to end it all.
For the past three years I’ve wondered why it is they call the season fall. Perhaps it’s the time of the year when I have to reckon with the falling temperatures. Heck, it must be the cold that chases me into the corners of my thoughts, and the delight of misery. Perhaps it’s the fall in excitment that comes with having such a care-free summer. Perhaps it’s the slow building of a winter inside that I am afraid of. Perhaps. The faults, the hiccups, the disappointments.
Narrowing in on the possibilities.
Narrow in on the impossibilities.
Harrow deep into skin.
Sleep for one more time
What will you say mother, when you see the scars poking out of my skin?
What will you do father when I have no words for trying to take aim at my being?
Should I have tried harder? Perhaps I was afraid. Perhaps I had too much pride. Is it pride or is it cowardice? Perhaps I forgot. I forget a lot these days.
There’s a price in forgetting. It’s a heavy price I have to pay in blocking away the past, being afraid of it; and there is a fairly heavy price in not imagining a future. Perhaps it’s the flaw of every man to think of himself as a drop in the ocean that leads to the singularity of such experience Perhaps its the draw of every man to think of the shape of his toe that may in turn lead one out of this singular experience. Therefore, I have tokens – people, things, memories that keep me away from the experience of feeling lost, boxed and hopeless. These tokens, they are friends who I wouldn’t bear feel that they couldn’t do anything to help; they are items that remind me of what I have created; they are memories of experiences where I made someone else smile. These tokens, hold them dear. I hold them dear in preparation for the singularity of my living. Remind someone of these tokens, show them these tokens, as markers for where meaning can be found. For when they are alone, thinking of no one but themselves- being swept by the river of despair, the tokens in their heads may be the only straw that they hold hold on to for the moment.