Thoughts on Dying.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
thoughts on a terminally ill girl on her last day among us.

Submitted: January 22, 2011

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Submitted: January 22, 2011

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“You can go,” Sam told me, “You can go now, and I’ll...I’ll manage.” And Sam let me go. And Sam loved me, and he let me go.

“Goodbye, Mary,”

The seventh day was the day of rest.

There was so much I could have done. So much that could have happened. This huge waving conditional life that had taunted me and persuaded me that it was what I wanted. It is very rare for people to get what they want. I have wanted many things in my sixteen years of life, and some of them I did get, and some of them I didn’t – it is a sad truth that we tend to focus on those things we didn’t get, rather than those that we did.

It’s human nature to get the perspective wrong. They think success is in the big things – those colossal life changing moments – but it’s those moments when you’re full of emotions, or those subtle moments which are so precious and startling that you didn’t even notice them. There were things I should have done, and things I shouldn’t have, but in the end life came down to sarcastic smiles, jokes that weren’t funny, knees brushing against each other underneath the stone desks and tiny bubbles of regret.

Parties you should never have gone too. Things you shouldn’t have said and the way you felt when they’d left your lips. Being alive. Feeling. Moving. Living.

Small talk. Undervalued, brushed under the carpet as a necessity. That was what made the world go round – those well rehearsed questions we could all remember. Questions about the weather, conversations about mildly ill relatives, and talking about how you’re doing at school – all of it.

Everything.

Each life is different, building itself up in insignificant moments, emotions, presence and mistakes. Everyone one is different, and you could never understand – unless you lived every single moment with them, by them, as them and take the weight of the world off their shoulders. Life moves on. Changes. I’ll never know.

I choose to separate myself now. I choose to take up my suitcase and leave. I’ve left stuff behind. Soon it will be forgotten. Maybe I’ll be remembered. Maybe I’ll become a distant figure and an unimportant character in a colossal story whilst lives are pieced together by moments.

Moments upon moments.

Twisting, swirling and glittering against the huge expanse of the universe. Stars burn thousands upon thousands of miles away, just out of sight. We look up, and we think that they’re ours – those silver dots in the huge blackness of sky – forever upwards.

The colours dance in a tantalising pallet of vibrancy – pulsating purple, rich red, brilliant blue, dazzling darkness and white.

The weight of the world presses down on my chest as my heart beats, beats, beats. A weight. Heaviness. Pushing downward from my chest. Down, deeper, beating. Beat. Beat. Beat.

My chest explodes into heat and passion – so strong that I could move mountains as my heart thumps in my aching chest. My heart screams with incomprehensible heat. It burns. The whole world’s on fire.

Still. A hand is clutching mine tightly. I can feel the familiar lines and curves of the hand and I recognise the skin under mine. As sensations leave I feel those circles. Round and round they go as my heard b-b-beats.

A drop of water in the ocean. A leaf falling in a forest. A cloud floats across the sky as all the moments and memories combine – moments upon moments in a twirling floating life. Glittering time and destiny. God. They all burn to ash and blister. Engulfing everything as it’s dissolved into nothing but weariness and brightness. Juxtaposition. Changes.

And everything’s going to be all right.

Flashes of white soar through the vision and my head swims through the ocean upon waves. The salt water cracks my lips and tastes of home. The tenses all blur and fade into meaninglessness: the past the present and the future – they’re all burning and decaying into a mass of dead cells which renew themselves into something else – new and alive.

I want to scream until my voice flies out of my throat and I can feel my heart swelling inside of me. It’s too big for my chest which expands, expands, and expands upwards. Out. Floating. Hovering. Buoyant.

And breath catches in my chest and my insides cool to levels of icy grief and it soothes and numbs, extinguishing the all-consuming fire that left me this way. Good bye, my brain says to them with gratification – you did good, kid, you did good.

A baby cries in a far off house – newborn and innocent – wise and naive – life.

Then nothing; nothing. A clear sky...A blank piece of paper...a stretch of canvas...Water...Whiteness.

Moments and memories and feelings all building up like the drums of my heart. It’s pulsating through me and shaking the whole world. The whole world is shaking and the water droplets fall and scatter. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Then everything stops.

And it ends.

Finally.


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