I sit here, calmly, on a Sunday afternoon. Three days since I heard the ultimate death sentence had been passed. No sun shines today but I know it is having a lazy day like me, it will deem to beam when it chooses. I only hope it does so before the end.
The end! Always two words to strike fear! They tell us there are seven days left. The clock is aching from counting down so quickly, its tired arms looking forward to a time when there shall be no more need for ruling people’s lives and keeping them in a system that is tyrannical.
I thought I would be more fearful than this. I have listened to the broadcast of “you have up to a week” and gathered screams, tears, panic and palpitations into one corner, swept them beneath the rug, so to speak.
Shops have sold out of food, panic buying and unfounded hope have ruled the first few days. A good time to see how long vegetables really last, I have told myself! Stew it is then, until the end. If that runs out I always have bread, a tinge of mould will look quite pretty by the end I imagine. Still, what is it they say about penicillin being mould? Surely a little on the bread won’t hurt in that light. And what will it matter? By the time it has made me ill, we shall be ether bound. Our souls up for the weighing and the feather fallen.
I watched minimal TV before the announcement and watch even less now. A week, they say. A week to remember and to look forward but to where? I gather photos and look at smiles. Absorb nostalgia from seconds no longer available. Times have been more than a little harsh these last few months. It seems not to matter now. I look at the faces of those still with me and then those who have passed, thinking I shall soon be with them.
“Father, I shall hold your hand again and hear your voice.”
Moments like this make me realise the end is not so bad.
I spent the first day of worrying beside a lake listening to its flow. Wondering what will become of nature itself. Will it live on without us? We have raped the earth of her bounty and seldom returned it. Maybe we deserve this, I secretly thought to myself looking at the ripples which reminded me all is continuous.
I wrote no words but memorised them for if the soul is eternal, who needs a book and pen in last moments? They never opened doors for me whilst I was alive, so why need them now? No, it is pointless to spend time recording final visions when those visions have been inside my head for most of the time anyway.
I spent the second day with a more positive attitude walking around the town. I shared a smile with those grieving for that which shall be lost and I could not help thinking how selfishness still plays a part in forthcoming death. Humanity regrets so many things. What they could have done or said, not what they did voice or achieve. They do not care about the lakes we shall never see again or the swans blossoming together in each other’s hearts. Nor do they care about the gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings or the noisy tone of seagulls first thing in the morning.
They only lament is for themselves, not the earth. Maybe that has been our downfall. We have wasted so many seconds coveting that which is not our own. Invading places where oil equals money regardless of the murder of civilians and soldiers. We have spent too much time looking the other way when we could have changed the vibration of the earth. Positivity alters a myriad of things and emotions. We could have all heard the Goddess sing instead of condemning her for the disasters mankind like to impose.
These, I remember, walking through a solemn town on a dull day, were my thoughts.
Then it struck me at point blank range. I have always empathised to an immeasurable depth and I am still doing so. Even though I shall be no more, I am still empathising with and for all. This, I know, is how I shall spend my last moments.
The third day, I recorded this as a type of diary note, only because it is said through fire, we release an intent. I shall burn this paper on the last evening, with a last request for peace not salvation. Perhaps that wish shall resonate and be heard by the gods.
Four days left and I am slumbering into nightfall. I am to be spirit not flesh. My goal is simple and for those who harbour anxiety and anger, I can see how I am ridiculed for remaining calm. I have no doubt when the time comes, I shall be as panicked as everyone else but I shall try to maintain who I am.
I have made this list of actions to follow through and I shall do so.
I shall tell my family, despite our differences, I love them. I shall hold my lover’s hand and calm them. I will offer positive affirmation to the Goddess, the trees that mourn with us. I shall go to the park and inhale sharply, breathing in the fragrance of life itself. Exhale calmly, allowing depression to dissolve. That is one emotion I shall be joyous to be free of.
I will laugh if only so I remember what the sound is like. Read a book as quickly as possible and talk to the stars in a plea that I get to see a last full moon before I hear the deafening silence. I shall talk to nature, thank her for her lessons and patience. I shall hug a tree and melt into its aura. I will taste a last sip of wine and relax with addiction’s cunning plan. It will not win after all! I smile to myself.
All of this and so much more to be done, so little time. A simple emotional act takes longer than you think.
I shall hold the people I have connected with close to my heart. Forgive all flaws in those who know not what they have done. Whisper to those I have never met “I love you” and know that the breeze shall carry my voice across the miles. However long is left will long enough to light a candle to invite us home, to a place where reality is something we all know the true meaning of. This existence is not reality! One other thing I shall do is visit the ocean. Let it soothe me and talk to fear.
“Born of the womb and returned to the womb.”
Unfortunately, I still have to sleep. Three nights of insomnia have changed nothing. I need to be coherent. I see my reason for such a painful life. If I can call upon the elements in the last moments of our wanderings, I shall do so. A Wiccan is never without their tools if unconditional love continues to exist in a good heart.
From touching earth and sleeping beneath a tree, a wise and beautiful birch no less. From dipping toes into cool running water. From dancing in the rain, ever present. From feeling the wind brush against my face, I know I will have lived final hours as I should have done and as I venture into eternal freedom, I shall laugh to myself. I will think of the powers that be carrying out clandestine actions that have long pursued you and me and realise as they huddle into their coven of chaotic reasoning that they shall not win. I have always said the fight is for your own soul, not the body or mind.
Days fade so quickly. With blood red sunset I raise a toast. My spirit is homesick, fatigued past healing. What a ride this journey has been.
“Brothers, sisters,” I say loudly.
“I have given you all that I could have been.”
Nothing more, nothing less. Glass raised high towards apocalyptic clouds, I speak softly to myself and cherish the bittersweet warmth of wine on my lips.
“I am coming home.”
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