We don’t know the end of this pandemic. We don’t see the end of anything. Yet, it happens often. The unknown has been our companions for eons, but we never mastered the art of living.
So, I think ahead to my demise, the way it must feel: a moment when the present dilutes into oblivion. My life-scroll on this lush blue-green oasis then becomes a baton for my loved ones – only if for a little while!
I am trying to describe what it feels like, but only successfully smudging the white paper with tiny blobs of ink from my pen. Blank spaces look back at me sternly as if the strength of speechlessness swallows the rest. My words feel fractured in my attempt to write, to speak. They limp more than they walk to a destination! My narratives become an indecisive argument between words, between emotions: a heartbeat away from heartache, what will stay, and what will leave?