Death as a Last Resort

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I designated get-well-wishes as loose change, mostly dimes and pennies, with a double jointed underhand toss threw my wishes into Hemlock Creek. Minuscule wrinkles expanded in the water from the scattered kerplunks, merging as individuals like an orgy of tiny tidal waves, dissipating once they reached climax along the rugged shoreline. I stood there for a few minutes thinking maybe a sign would appear to signify my wish had come true, an angel perhaps, or even a demon offering trade for my soul. But all the implications of reality offered truth, I was dying and the end was coming soon. I still had clear vision at that point which made the exposed roots of the trees easy to avoid, but if I made that trip now it’s assured that I would face plant in the dirt and beg the 0 horizon to spare me of its lingering wildlife, to a vulture I’d already be dead. In a way, I am. Every interaction with everyone is an exasperating occurrence that features exchanges of how are you with my short answers. I used to enjoy long discussions about the here and now, but to all formal topics, be it political or social in context, I exclaim fuck you. It’s hard to value 99% of any peoples when I know that soon enough they’ll be standing above my grave sighting remember when. What makes me human then? A classification of species. Dammit. My genitals are rotting. The trash that ought to be evacuated from my bladder is blood, my life-force has forsaken me. What makes me human?
Having devoted most of adulthood to atheism I decided to find solace in religion. I confessed to priests. I mediated with monks. I spoke with rabbis about the Jewish devotion to faith. I prayed with Muslims in a folded posture hoping the lord would rub my arched back. Other than killing time (literally) I was met with silence and the aching notion that I’d wasted what little hours remain. Maybe I’ll confess on my deathbed. Seek penance at Heaven’s Gate and coast through Purgatory with a smile. Maybe. Or I’ll be buried and ignored by earthworms because even they won’t touch my infected particles. What makes me human is that I’ll die, like the rest of ‘em. Death is the only natural thing about human life. We’ve created the fillers in-between, mocked our universe with economic laws. I don’t write this as a warning because a warning is convinced that its plot is real and true. I write this as a question unsure of where I find meaning in these final days. I fear my life has been nothing but a routine, a wave to the neighbors, a counter argument, a choir song sung out of tune. Please. Bury me with the answers.

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