It doesn’t feel right because it feels too real. I know I need to cope with these realities – that death will one day come for me.
But it’s too terrifying to think about.

It’s right in that it must be done. In that I need to come to grips, but it feels utterly wrong. My body is calm, accepting. By when my mind pictures my grandfather – him sitting next to me, like the angel of death, my eyes start to water.
My tears strike my cheek and makes my face shiver.
My nose gets a chill – running from the bridge to the brain: where my grandfather as my reaper was first imagined.

One day I will have to die. And every encounter with this thought turns into mania. I just can’t stop.
Your brain will not shut off. Your body begins to panic. You are short of breath, twitching, sitting up, hoping for some leverage in your body. You take out your phone, turn the computer on, try to distract yourself in any way.

I need this. I need solace. I can’t live the rest of my life in utter fear of death. This doesn’t feel right, but it is right. Death doesn’t feel right, but is right:

by right I mean an inevitable truth.

I can’t stand the idea of driving myself to death.
Driving myself to death from grief.
from panic.
from paralysis.

Not living. Living in death. In fear of death. In fear of the fear of death. In fear of death controlling my living.

Is it time to stop writing? My hands know. My hands guide my writing.
my urgency.
my need.

My grandfather’s hands were purple from the bruising. His skin like paper from the medication. A week before his death, I took his hand in mine. Tears welled as we looked at each other. His elegant jeweler’s fingers entrusted in my searching writer’s hand. Our two worlds – old and young – wanderer and bedridden. I knew his time was coming. The man I inherited my terror from is on his deathbed. He becomes my angel. My angel of death.

I am talking. I need to tell. Talking to myself. Telling myself. Talking to you.
Do you understand me?
Can you bear my story?
Can you bear witness to my story?
Can you bear the weight of my story?

Will you bear my fear,
…with me?

–Please?

–Please?

I just want solace.
I just want relief.
understanding.
to be with.

–Please?

I know this is what I have to talk about. What my hands want. But never admitting it. What happens when we admit it? When we admit death? When I admit my fear? Is it still as scary? As scary as mania?

As scary as that mania in the middle of the night – crazed with fear.

As scary as that mania right before it’s time to sleep.
Right before you fall into the arms of death’s lover?