Death scares me.
I never thought that were true before. I recognise the fact that we are transient. I know our time on this earth is but a passing whisper. I’ve watched, as Death gripped its bony fingers around a loved one and together they turned to dust. I’ve lived through the pain of surviving when they are gone. I know, one day, those fingers will curl hard around my shoulder too, and that’ll be it.
I’m not afraid of Death. I’m not afraid of the pain or the suffering or the helplessness that rides its coattails. I believe, that when the hour is nigh, and the sun sets for the last time, I would go easily. I’d hold out my hands in no protest, and offer myself up completely.
Unless. I had not lived. If I had not lived when living was to be done, the moment I became aware of this, I’d pray Death not to come. One day more, I’d ask. One more chance.
If life is not what death is not, and a life not lived is not a life at all, then Death becomes me. It will wrap itself all over me, shrouding me from light, from life. It will emblazon itself on my forehead, stitch itself into my crest, write itself into my creed, and I will be Death.
And Death scares me.