Now, I don’t think about survival. But before dying, I have the courage to ask myself one last time, “Is there any last wish, Mr. before your death?” I paused and inhaled the dampness of the imaginary coffins, the incoherent sadness of those who have already passed on, the exuberance of the inanimate air hovering anxiously around me.
There was a moment of catharsis and I knew in a moment what I would wish for the last time.
“I wish to see how, how those people around me, who are slithering through this thin air unnoticed and unoccupied hold themselves to hope, like the plants in a barren land.
I want to see, how hope can push me off the roof and catch me off-guard in between existence and death.
I want to see, how life has died under those ashes from my infernal rage, yet the curiousity falls upon that plant still growing on square centimetres popping out its green leaves from under the grey turbidity.
And finally I want to see life, how it is existing with a frail heart and sick lungs yet refusing to give up among those small numbers of people beside me”. Though I have not found any life in me, I have always seen myself running through vaulted doors, hitting the cords in labyrinths, snapping off the attachment.
© jumbled Letters