I recently read a cancer patient’s fear manual. It contained a combination of sheer fright and faithful submission to the breakdown of bodily functions. Her spirit was ready to soar regardless of what its defeated shell had in mind.
That was when I knew she was made for this. She was made to endure the process of forced separation, that would finally set her free against her will because death comes to those who wait.
She was made to die. And so am I. So are you.
But why does it have to happen?
I never asked to be born. It just happened. I was never consulted about what family I preferred or if I was okay with being born in America, while still harboring strong ties to a shithole country. I wasn’t able to negotiate my way out of the earlier events that weren’t necessary, and would inevitably disorganize my chances to develop without unsightly keloids blocking views.
So I guess I definitely won’t be able to avoid the catastrophic rites of passage that we spend our lives pretending will never occur — until we can’t.
And that’s if we’re lucky, because a ton of us are well aware that we’re not meant to be here for long. And that agreement is brandished in the hospital beds we call home or the dysfunctional mechanisms that define our impending exit.
