Death is coming. It is that certainty up ahead that everyone is aware of. You don’t know which day could be your last. Is it today, tomorrow, maybe a few years down the road?

There’s an unsaid eventuality lurking in every story. You could be walking down the road, and get hit by the bus. You could be leaning down the boat, slip and drown. Hell! You could simply drop dead for no reason at all.

A far bigger and mysterious power plays us like marionettes. Always has. The cardinal question is – should you let such a sure-fire certainty affect you?

Every beginning has an end. Your ending has been walking towards you from the other side of the world. You are going to meet eventually. You have to say hello.

I write this morbid account today, from the realm of the netherworld. Standing at the precipice of a probable leap, the more I think of it, the more accepting I become. I had a good run, hadn’t I?

Started right from the bottom to witness how the graph is really supposed to be. Met fortune up late, but meet I did.

I see people freaking out with its sheer mention as if they think it is an alien concept. The truth is, it has always been around. The ferryman has always been right there, waiting. Waiting for its last ride.

I feel threads galore lacerated deep into my skin. They are my loved ones holding me down, as I swell up like a balloon. I feel their denial mostly. I feel their pain. It is mutual. But somewhere in their needing, wanting me down, and my desire to meet my maker, I am left with a dozen scars. They fail to see it, for they would never be okay with me leaving them stranded even at the cost of overlooking all the stories that my lesions narrate.

I had dreams of my own, you know. Creating things, carving pieces of unsmoked reality. I feel gutted not able to make all the things, probably passing away undone.

At one point that used to be one of my biggest fears. But now I have come to terms with it. No one cared for it anyway. It shall pass with me, me and all my goddamn care in the world shall be underneath the ground, and it would hardly matter.

But none of it, none of it compares to my next train of thoughts. The most pensive I become is when I think of how I had a story waiting for me in a distant land. How I was supposed to lead it gradually into my life, spoil it mad and walk with it, through the sands of time.

How there was a dog up in the cards, actually two, a sunburnt house next to a frozen lake, a towering mountain watching over me. How there were supposed to be holidays, vacations, and time. Lots and lots of the latter. How it would elicit a memory to think over this piece of paper – the then and the now, which feels more like the now and the could-have-been.

All those uncooked moments go kaput just like that when everything macabre paints over.

It is coming. It is coming to wake me up from my dream.