"I would like to go home now, back to the time when I was 79, to the dust on the ground. Before time for me even began. It has been a while, a long while now, since I have slept and had a good dream. Since I have seen the end of things. Back when it was all better, when the noise inside my head wasn't loud and angry and hurt and..."
I woke up to a vivid dream of me leaving home—a familiar place where there were hanged pictures of when I was young. It was quite beautiful. It was quite tragic. And the poem—I felt that I wrote it. It was a goodbye before the passing, before the passing of my time. But it wasn't my end. I am nowhere near the age the man was.
But it felt like me. He smiled. He smiled at me as I looked at him leaving through the door of a dark room as he wrote that poem. But he was happy. He was satisfied.
It left me wondering if I would also be happy. Would I also be like the old man who was now allowed to leave the darkness? The light when he opened the door was beautiful. It was magnificent. Suddenly the whole space that surrounded him was filled with light, with paintings of beautiful things. It was nature. It was him. It was what he was—a dreamer and imagination of mine.
But for now, as I contemplate, I began to reevaluate what life was, what meaning it holds. Why do we cherish it and prolong it and struggle so hard to live it in the process when the end will come for all? Why not let it all end when your time has come? It will come eventually. It may not be today or tomorrow, but eventually, it will come.
Why hesitate? Why…