Waiting for death to come

I am waiting for death to come. One hour, one day, one week, bleeds into another as the appointed time of my demise relentlessly approaches. The apprehension of the unknown casts a shadow upon my longing to get the catastrophe of my life over.

The debacle of my birth haunts the domain of the living, even creeping into the futility of the dead. I am waiting for death to come without a moment’s notice or a word of warning. Why should I be afforded such luxury when my deserving is not befitting such?

Hour by hour. Week by week. The breath is exhausted, and the lights dimmed to embrace nothing more and devour the before. The beat of my heart pounds my ears as I try to sleep, reminding me of how fragile life is. Throb after throb telling me that the end is near.

I want it to be over, but on my terms. The fear of the unknown is a quest to explore the still coldness of the ground above and the heat of the earth’s mantle below. The beautiful dense darkness of peace surrounds me in tranquility never before.

I am waiting for death to come, as it surely will. All thoughts gone, my eyes closed, my life done. I am no more, joining my sister as all those who have gone before me. The stiff coldness of death encompasses me, as my existence is forgotten by the cosmos. Thank goodness.