I shouldn’t be here right now. What was once life… should have met with death. Yet, here I am, breathing in the air around me. Full of life.
Well, maybe not full of life, I can’t really say… but there is plenty of life left inside of me. Enough to keep me going each day it seems. — Even after the days should have stopped coming.
I don’t know why I’m still here. I’m not sure what I’m missing. I’m not so important that it makes sense for me to continue breathing while others have stopped. What am I missing?
I’m just a lone writer. So why have I been spared? How temporary is it? What happens next?
Should I fear death around every corner? I’m not certain I’m capable of that. I’ve never been one to fear the inevitable. Death takes us all. Or perhaps, should I feel on edge? Paranoid, even? — Do I dare hope that there is a lot of life left in me? — I feel that maybe that is what’s to be feared here. — The loss of hope…. If I should choose to let myself go to such a place.
I certainly won’t sit around and wait for the end, that much I know. Until it arrives, I’ll search to the ends of the Earth for the answers…. and then I’ll make the time to write them down for the world to read.
The life of the writer, whose life should have ended, but instead.. it began again. — If life is refusing to give up on me… then I will join with it in the fight against death. — & I won’t stop until I’ve found the answers.
At birth, everyone has the date they will die tattooed on their arm. — You were supposed to die yesterday.