We avoid talking about the aftermath of the last death, just as we avoid looking directly into the eye of the sun, but we feel it in deep depths as we feel its warmth, in fact of the matter that it lurks behind us behind days and jumps over the hands of the hours towards us and cuts the rope of our durable life in a moment of omission from us.

I wonder if I am he king entrusted with the forcible seizure of our souls, prior news that it is not our first death but perhaps the last. We had come across several times and collided face to face on different roads but without a death certificate or an explicit corpse.

I wonder after we leave this earth with fear and haste, will the angels carry us on a soft cloud, or will we fly with wings of light to our true sanctuary, or will we rise according to our deeds! How would our last words be? In what form would we pronounce them shivering or warm? What is the last work we do? And what is the end date of this game that we go through every year and we do not feel? To what extent will our wide eyes hang, then how will the smell of the last dawn smell? Does time have a rotten smell if it is about to end?

In any way, the curtain itself will fall on this sarcastic play? What idea came to our minds as soon as the features of the conclusion became clear? How did we face the fact that the story puts its final touches? Will we applaud completely satisfied with what we spent, did we get our approval? Was it the way we intended for it or was its path forcibly diverted to the ramp on which we hung signboards?
Then life is nothing but a long farewell. My faith is sober in the idea of leaving and how we are created to voluntarily march towards our death, rather we are dead, so did we pass through it better!

Shall we leave with a calm and relaxed conscience, or are we human by nature? We covet more. We ask for a delay, perhaps an hour or two, a day or a month-to give our shadows the right to withdraw, and see in the mirrors how we were one day, then to taste the bitterness of tears and suffocate them, to seize the opportunity to show love as we love and we fill in the gap of emptiness with alternatives that ease our departure from the plant that we used to water it, perhaps the neighborhood cat that loved us will be distressed from a place empty of us or a book that we did not complete reading will age awaiting us from the strangeness of the room that has lived with us for many nights and witnessed our conflicts, maturity and our transformations.

What about the childhood friend you promised to meet? It dispels the desolation of the separation. Will I hit him in the death of a greater parting? Then what about the promises that have been made about the plans that have not been fulfilled yet? And remain stuck in the middle and the dreams that have not been fulfilled?

7 thoughts on “Traveling Six Feet Under

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