My relationship with death is that I am neither afraid of it nor hopeful against it. Even now, with layers of peace, the kind I dreamed of, unfolding and present in my life I am still as willing to welcome death as an exit from this world. Folks do not get it, they don’t understand. Why would you say something like that with your life swelling from goodness all around you. They don’t get it and I don’t care that they don’t. But I can offer some insight, a peek into my chest, an attempt at an explanation.
You see, my life has wounded me in ways I can never fully recover from. No matter how soft the ground beneath my feet is turning out to be, I’m unable on many days to still stand on it without my head swirling. If I die even today I have no direct family to mourn me, not even the new wave of chosen family. None of that. But don’t feel sorry for me, the latter part is still by choice, the day will come. My point is my death will be insignificant you see, this is next level shit. But that is not why I became indifferent about my own death. Our intertwining started way back when I still had hearts made out of flesh and bones beating around me which were full of love for me. When I still had things to lose. A reputation here to consider. A disappointment there to avoid. A hopeful long life filled with loud ambition to live and meet. Until one by one my worst fears and worries came to pass. The things I wanted so badly not to see with my eyes met me beyond halfway. Then death became a longing, a necessity but even death left me hanging with my own life tied around my neck, screaming at me to find another way to cease my breath since nothing in this life or the next wanted anything to do with us. So I learned to stop breathing while breath still filled my lungs. I learned the literal meaning of a resurrection, to become a new thing within the same body, to be unrecognisable even to yourself. To say to lovers who come around - do not touch me yet, I am not ready to be pulled back into this world even though I am here with you. Prepare a table for me yes but I cannot stay with you long enough to establish it, to feel new roots growing between my breasts. Have mercy on me. Allow me to be for you a passing thing, a god. To show you my wounds and let you deep your fingers into them, clear your doubts yes but I cannot stay.
You see, I told you my life has wounded me in ways I can only advertise but not reveal. And this has formed my relationship with death, as a thing I am constantly longing for and requiring from others even while I yet live. So remember not to feel sorry for me but do not envy me either. My life in its own way is a perfect thing, a rainbow seen halfway yet existing as a full circle. A necessary beautiful thing to remind me and my god that enough is enough. There is so much more I can do now in this state that would have been impossible with any of those things buried under the flood. Now I can exist as a gospel, as an impossible thing.