Because I do that kinda thing too:
It was only this morning that I realized that no one will ever call me ”child” again. In fact it has been years. It’s not like I just woke up this morning and knew that I was a grown up. I have known for months now that I will never be more grown up than I am now. I have known for months that growing up is something I have done, growing old is something I am not going to do.
And yet it struck me as I woke up. Just like that. Just six words on my lips and in my brain all morning through brushing my teeth through morning tea, through her silently closing the door and sitting down by my bedside running her newly painted nails through the ponytail as she placed it on the front side of her left shoulder. Six words. I am no longer a child.
These days I am so much less than a child. I am nothing at all really. I am a tragedy. Her tragedy. A limp body in a bed and the beep beep beep beep that tells her that my heart is still wasting heartbeats. They say that when people reach this stage they feel things. The only thing I feel is a lack of feelings. And the pain of course but the pain has become so much a part of me that I hardly think of it as a feeling now. It’s more like a body part as if the pain is just another of my ever failing organs. I suppose I should feel sad now. Sad that I won’t get more time. That I won’t get to have a great and prosperous life. That I won’t get to live my dreams.
But I wonder if I would have lived my dreams had I been given more time. What would I have done with that time? Is it even worth having? I suppose I should feel remorse. Remorse because I never did the things I dreamt of as a child. Remorse because I never enjoyed all that I had back then. Because I was so busy living that I never appreciated the times I had. I wonder if I didn’t. I know I enjoyed every breath she ever drew. I know I got the best of it. What would life have been like had I been so busy enjoying life that I forgot to live it? It is not that I am ungrateful for the times I had. It is not that I would not live it all once again. It is that I know what is coming. I know what the world will look like after I have gone. I know how little there is to stay alive for. And even though it is a feeling I am not willing to admit that I feel. I feel glad. Glad that I will leave this place. Glad that I will leave her. Glad that I am dying.
Maybe it is because I won’t experience it that I have been allowed to feel the future. Maybe I am just the only one not denying the facts and what they will lead to.
Here it is yet but a rumor. A whisper behind curtains. A ripple in the water in the duck pond. A headline on a blog some kid came by. The news between sitcoms and television dramas every evening. They say that all of northern Africa is in flames. The riots are spreading to Spain and Italy. Some important German diplomat was assassinated in Paris just yesterday. They are still just treating it like a homicide. Here between the cottages and the afternoon tea no one really cares but I know. I know it will be 1914 all over again. I know the world will end.
Maybe all this hypochondria on behalf of the world is just a product of my sickness. Maybe it is just a natural reaction to seeing your life slipping away between your fingers and most of the time not even being able to move them. Maybe it is just the morphine talking. I hope so. I really do. I might not be able to hang around and see the world either end or just keep on going. But I hope that it will keep going. And I hope that she will be around to see it.
I remember back on my twentieth birthday. Me counting the years I had left to live till I reached the average age that people die in. 64 years. That is what the math said. And sometimes sixty-four years would feel like a life sentence, which I suppose it was in a way. Sometimes it would feel like a burden on my shoulders and I would cry on the inside, only thinking “what am I gonna do with all this time?” “How am I gonna keep breathing all these years”. And then sometimes it would feel differently. 64 years would feel like a number. 64. It would feel like a small and insignificant number and I would feel like soon it would be only 54 years and then 44 and then 4. 4 years to live in. It felt like nothing at all. Now I have 4 weeks. If I am lucky. If I am really lucky 4 weeks is less than the time it will take the end of the world to reach this little pocket of comfortable ignorance.
Yesterday she brought some of the children from the neighbourhood around to see me. They smiled. I smiled. She smiled. I don’t know if they recognized me. I’m not even sure what I look like these days. I don’t know if they knew this was the last time they were going to see me. She knew of course. She seems to know it all. She knows what I like her to wear. She knows what time of night I am awoken by nightmares. She knows that I won’t be here for long. The only thing she doesn’t know is that loosing me won’t be her greatest tragedy and I am too much of a coward to tell her.