I spent my halcyon years imagining my death.
Beatific in its timing.
Deific in execution.
Poetic in undertone.
As I got older, and catastrophe continued to strike in
pretty
random patterns
I realised there was no point in hurry or design.
Just cross your fingers.
Maybe it won't hurt as bad as that time you closed your fingers in the trunk
maybe you won't see it coming.
Wouldn't that be nice?
Like an unexpected gift from an uncle you never knew
or that crumpled $20 that went through the wash three times.
Its there.
Its spent.
Then you get a very dark, empty dream.
You never lack, or want, or wish again.
Some call it peace
others think it terror.
I'm going to liveĀ a darker shade of forever.