I find myself choking on my words. There are too many to say, too many people to tell to.
I find myself preparing to die. Not a certainity but to face the probability of an eventual death. From being sure that I had 10 years left to today, as I begin to understand that it might just be weeks.
Thoughts race at a million miles an hour as I begin to slow myself down to match the pale blue walls of the observation ward, that holds it’s own sense of silent, sad peace. This isolation feels like the worst it has been in years, and this is me, who has been in the same style of life since birth saying it. And now, finally i can see what it is like to stand against a huge wave with not even a pole to hold on to, lest a rock. I never imagined existing in this weak space, which feels almost too weird, having never even asked someone to help, ever. Having hated the feeling of pity, I would never let anyone know, till they have to know, after I die. And on the verge of this, I realise that I have no one I can bravely tell to “ These are my last days, and I need you to be there for these days, without feeling sorry for me”
Too many words left unsaid, too many halfhearted goodbyes, too many dreams left hanging. And there wasn’t time. Not anymore. Not enough to make a difference.
And I scroll through the acoounts of my social media, wishing I hadnt lost so much time in the useless ways of my life. There were far too many movies left of my list, millions of unexperienced experiences, a dream trip through the italian countrysides, too many people left to meet, too much love lost in the wind. Too many apologies owed to people and too much gratitude left unexpressed. Too many books left unread, too much art left unseen.
Worst of all, too many dreams left to die. I could have done it, but I didn’t in the illusion of always having a tomorrow. And now, there is no tomorrow. No tomorrow to write a book like I wanted to, all words unsaid.
I wish to sneak off for a night, one night to go back into my room looking through every memory, every poster on the walls, that has almost faded. One more dawn, just one more to watch the sun rise at the beach, and just one evening to spend in a park with a lot of homemade snacks, laughing with some friends watching as the sun sets. Or just one night drinking wine, and dancing to “can’t help falling in Love with you”. One more evening on a balcony in paris, smoking as I listen to someone play guitar on the streets. A trip down some european countryside, rich with art and peace, eating exotic street food. Just one more afternoon of filter coffee and conversation with mom, as she soothes me up every day. A few more summer afternoons watching Phineas and Ferb or Kid vs Cat, as I eat the icecream in the freezer. A few more films alone in an empty theatre. Some pani puri with the read pani, rasam rice with mashed potato. Hell, I’d even eat curd, which I hate.
No, this is me describing a future that I might never see.
As I get ready for the aftermath, I write a hundred letters with a range of emotions that each hold: anger, love, gratitude, joy, a few gifts to reach people after a day I cant do it myself. With me stuggling to forgive those who never asked sorry, to express gratitude to those who were there, to finally attain a closure that only death gives.
I urge you all to get on with your lives, before its too late.
In case I don’t actually die, maybe I will live with a closure, unconditional love, gratitude, forgiveness and a “never take anything for granted” that only someone that has almost touched death would have in them
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