every single night, for the past six months, after sleepily putting down a book, switching off the lights, and turning around, there has been only one thing lurking in my mind.
i’ve been told it’s a phase, everyone goes through it, whether they like it or not, by choice or by force, inevitably.
inevitably is the word.
most of the times, there are panic attacks and i break into a cold sweat and sit up abruptly clutching at my arms in need of something to grab hold of, to acknowledge its fleeting existence, that i can feel and that there will be a point in which it won’t be felt anymore, and whimper ‘no no no no no nonononononononono i don’t want to nonononooooo’.
lately i’ve been thinking about it during the day as well. it’s becoming too frequent.
i told my father during the easter weeks i spent at theirs’ for the nth time about it, he said he went through it in his 30’s.
‘so, am i going to obsess about this for longer?’
‘no, you’ll get over it, and i’d rather you thought about it now’
‘but i never will. i don’t understand how people deal with it.’
‘well… you eventually stop thinking about it, you accept it… it’s a part of life. other things start preoccupying you.’
‘but i don’t want to die, and i don’t want you to die, and i don’t want mom to die, nor germán.’
‘… i don’t want to die either.’
‘so don’t die and stay!’
the last night i spent with them i tossed and turned for hours and ran downstairs in the middle of the night and peeked into my parents’ room. the lights woke them up,
‘why aren’t you sleeping??’
‘i can’t stop thinking about it’
and i accepted their offer on sneaking into their bed like i did so many times when i was little, seeking the feeling of security and warmth, and reverted to that state of blissful ignorance.
now that i’m on my own, i regret all the times i wanted to increase the distance between them and me. all the times i planned to deliberately spend the least time as i possibly could with them. all the times i winced at them and ignored their advice. all the times i wrote awful things, shouted at them, slammed doors, disobeyed them by default.
they warned me about this.
‘you’ll appreciate us someday in you're older’
‘pfft yeah right’
i feel like i’m trying to anchor them with me in a temporal stasis in which we will live forever but time trudges on and takes them with it and i’m left powerless, pulled by shackles as well.
and i get so overwhelmed with dread and sadness and fear that i can’t help but explode in angry sobs and sniffles, intermittently, as the line of thought progresses, in premature mourning.
because i don’t believe in there being anything after death, at all. it’s such torture, so horrible, to be given life, existence, self-awareness, and then be robbed of it, only for one’s experiences, memories, achievements to be rendered pointless and useless, disappearing in the space of a fraction of a second, as if there wasn’t life in the first place - that person never existed, it’s all black black black and nothingness, just decay and decomposition and mould and ashes.
how will i ever get over death? in the future, it will be forced upon me, inevitably, and that day i will not know what to do.
i would also like to apologise for this inane burst.