My Last Memory.


In my darker days, I ponder on dying and what that would feel like.

What does dying mean? 

To me, it is still a mystery with no definite outlines. And I’m okay with keeping the mystery. And learning to accept it as part of our daily living. People die everyday. It’s what we do. The price we pay for life.

No energy in our universe, is ever created or destroyed, merely transformed and transferred. 

So we too transform and get transferred. 

I only have one wish, something that I must remember to do, when I feel that moment is about to come.

My last memory of life.

It’s not really a memory.. More like a dream.

And island. Red sunset along the horizon, off the shore in some dense forest there’s a glass house, and in it, are all sorts of flowers.. especially Tiger Lillies. I seem to connect to Tiger Lillies. Beautiful butterflies flutter around, they come and die in my paradise, a private place to die in dignity.

A table and an arm chair await me. On that table is a book, Kafka or Murakami, sometimes Hemingway, never a constant, on the table, good coffee and a cigarette, just freshly lit.


This entry was published on March 14, 2014 at 11:08 pm. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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