witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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The thought of death has been looming over me like a shadow made of slugs trailing my every footstep. Leaving behind that gooey slime that trickles from their every pore. I�ve been consuming its prospects the way It consumes its victims. There isn�t a day I don�t think of it.

I am neither depressed nor remotely suicidal. I am reasonably content. And yet, like a marble statue with moss winding down its cracks, I find Death nestled in my edifices. Splitting apart my seams and digging into my fissures.

I fixate on its presence, like a cold blade resting against my neck, so frequently that I�ve invited its own familiarity into my life. It�s no longer unusual to have my first and last thoughts of the day be Death. In whatever form it transpires, I welcome it.

It�s a curiosity quivering to reach the surface but blanketed by a sheet of mental boundaries. The way blood swells and ebbs to the skin but never breaks it. It becomes a bruise. And every morning I wake to trace the edges of that tender mark as I press down against it once more.

8:25 a.m. - Wednesday, Jan. 22, 2009

Then - Now