It is snowing and I cannot feel my hands.

My hands are always cold—poor circulation, a symptom of being tall, of tall stature. I am a front row person, but I never sit at the front of the classroom out of fear of blocking someone else's view, of inconveniencing others, of condemnation. I am very tall and my hands are so cold, I am a tree in winter with brittle branches and twigs ready to snap, ready to break.

I am not ready to break, I am bent and twisted, the scoliosis twists my spine, wringing me out until I can only see behind me, like an owl frozen in time. I can only see behind me and I am peering into a past that is eerily familiar. They say that hindsight is 20/20, but my vision has always been awful and everything is blurry. There are shapes and the shapes are moving, moving; nothing ever stays stagnant, nothing ever remains, nothing persists, everything changes and changes and changes until it is not what it was before, but rather something new, the amalgamation of experience and addition and subtraction and refinement.

I am afraid of change. I am afraid of the unknown, of shifts to my routine, my routine that gives structure to my life. Without my traditions, my rituals, my routine, I stumble, I fall. I wish I weren't so deeply troubled by insignificant interruptions, but it is not Christmas and I don't believe in Santa Claus anyway; I wish I weren't so fragile, but there are no shooting stars in the sky for me to wish on—everything is cloudy, everything is misty. I think, maybe, that I can wish on myself. I am myself, aren't I? Aren't I?

I am myself and I am tall and my hands are very cold, but I love them anyway.

My hands are cold and they move slowly, but I am patient, I have patience. I have patience with my hands, why can't I have patience with myself? With myself? With who I am—who am I? I can give you the boxes I package my identity in, I can deliver little gifts and presents that contain the chopped up fragments of who I am. I can tell you my Myers-Briggs type, I can tell you my Enneagram type, my astrology sign, my college majors, my research interests, my favorite color, my results from Buzzfeed personality quizzes. That's not quite me though, is it? That's not quite me. If you want the sketch, take the boxes, but if you want the entire painting, you'll need to wait and watch.

I am myself and I am tall and my hands are very cold and my spine is twisted and I am peering into the past.

It's awfully inconvenient to walk forward when you're stuck looking behind you, but my routine is deeply ingrained into my body, so I take my steps confidently, I take my steps cautiously. I am a cautious person, I am an anxious person.

I need routine and that is okay, that is okay because I am okay, and if I am not okay, I will be okay. I will be okay and that is enough. That is enough. I am enough.

It is snowing in April and my hands are very cold. I wrap them around my body, clutching myself closely, giving myself a hug I know I need. My hands are very cold and they aren't always precise, but they are my hands, and I love them for what they are, not what they should be. I love myself for what I am, not what I should be—or at least, that's what I want, I want that to be true. I want to love myself again, and really, I'm trying. I've made so much progress, I've come so far. I think there's self-love in my future; I trust my body to know where to go even though I am stuck looking behind me.

I am stuck looking behind me because my spine is twisted and because I am addicted to the charm of nostalgia. Nostalgia and I are in a complicated relationship; there's no romance between us, but sometimes she smothers me with sadness over a past that never was and I like the emotional asphyxiation, but I don't think that's very healthy, is it? I don't think that's very healthy at all.

I am afraid of change and I need routine and I get so horribly sad when my routine gets disrupted. I am the epitome of a creature of habit, and I live joyfully. I live joyfully on my well-worn tracks, I live joyfully knowing what to expect and seeing it come to fruition. My first year of university, I ate the same things ever single day: breakfast was a bowl of raisin bran with whole milk, coffee with french vanilla cream, some fruit, and Emergen-C or orange juice; lunch was a small chocolate chip granola bar paired with a tiny cup of espresso; dinner was a spinach tortilla wrap with lettuce, grilled chicken, two tomatoes, and ranch dressing, plus french fries and a chocolate chip cookie. I ate the same things every day and I did the same things every day and I was a creature of habit, and I was happy, I was stable.

The world is so awfully unpredictable, and I can't see what's happening in front of me because my head is stuck facing backward into my past. It's okay, I'm okay. Maybe I should visit a chiropractor?

For now, I am working on acceptance. I am working on accepting that I need routine but that my routine will get disrupted inevitably. I am working on finding comfort with chaos. I am working on strengthening the walls of my mind so that I can find comfort in turbulent times. I am working on loving myself—really, I am! I'm working on loving myself. I'm making progress. I love my hands, I really do.

My hands are cold and they're not always perfect but they do what I need them to do.

It is snowing in April and my hands are very cold and I am trying to love myself, I really am.

It is snowing in April and I think that everything is going to be okay.

.

Did she really hear a woman's cry?

She shivers and quickly steps out of the bathtub, wrapping her body in a big, deep purple towel and resting her hands against the creamy sink. What the hell was that? She questions into the empty space around her, eyes falling to her reflection. She looked scared and confused, terrified of everything that seemed to be happening in the last few days.

Well, whatever it was today, it went away, though Mel didn't seem to be even half as scared as she was but looking anxious, fingers curling in and out. She sent her a few weary stares, but eventually, Mel just shook it off, telling her not to worry too much and that all will be well. She took the advice as best as she could, yet the feeling stayed with her for many hours, the memory of it still lingering deep under the skin. What was she to do? What if something worse happened?

What if she hurt someone?

Her nerves start to pick up, hands holding the sink tighter, muscles straining, panic overtaking her and causing the blood to almost freeze in her veins, attacking the deepest structure of her bones. And without even a second break, the lights above her head begins to blink, making those snapping, sickening sounds again. It makes her flinch with eyes shutting tightly, knowing better now. SHE was causing that, and it made her entire body swim in fear, feeling like she might suffocate at any moment. She shakes her head and quickly works on the breathing, trying to meditate just like Mel taught her, taking deep, steady breaths. And thankfully, after a while, the lights stop flickering, everything in the room becoming still. The only remaining evidence of life in the four walls coming from the rushed pulse of her heart, still quivering like a baby bird thrown out into the cold too fast. She exhales slowly but still trembles like a leaf.

I just need sleep, it will help. And when I wake up, it will all just be another nightmare, the morning pushing all of the shadows away. It will, it will, it will. She closes her eyes tight shut again and chants like a stubborn little girl, then almost runs out of the bathroom and into her temporary bed on the second floor. It will, it will, it will. It has to. Please, please, please.

Just make it stop already.

Body trembles as she curls into a tight ball, warm flannel sheets covering her as if in a carefully made nest, an illusory symbol of safety for the frail little bird made of a softly painted, night-colored soul. No longer a brave raven, but barely a black robin lost in the everlasting Winter's night, so far away from the sun.

.

It is a big goddam cauliflower, a poor excuse for an ear, making me wonder who coined the phrase cauliflower ear and why. Those who know me inside out, like my best friend Harvey, my big sister Sharon and my parents, who think they know every little thing about me but really don't, I can hear them know. "Bradley is a big goddam exaggerator." If they cannot appreciate my creativity, I cannot appreciate their tight underwear. With the outside world, I sprinkle my word salad shit like candy without sinister premeditation. I can't help it if they eat it up. Like the other day when I was on the back of the line in the cafeteria I said, out loud, I don't know why, I guess I was in a mood, "Do not get the macaroni and cheese." Three or four unsuspecting heads within earshot turned around and one of them said, "Why not?" None of them looked familiar to me. They were all tenth graders and I'd never seen them before in my life. That's when I spoke back to them, deciding what to say on the fly in a whisper. I know how whispering can lend an air of credibility. "Bugs." I whispered, pointing towards the tray up in front of us. In my opinion, kids should learn to be less trusting and more confrontational about junk information from a stranger. Seriously, my intent was not to scare them or deceive them. No. And it was not my place to teach them a lesson in gullibility either. I was just bored after French class and I can't help it, dear cafeteria cook, if none of them ordered the macaroni and cheese.

"Exaggerating is the same as lying." Sharon says this almost every time I do declare just about anything at this point, and I vehemently disagree that exaggerating is the same as lying, cause otherwise exaggerating would not be a word unto itself. I'll just look that shit up on my phone again in front of her to prove a point. She knows I will, and she'll roll her eyes round and round like a surprised lemur in a tree or a dizzy old Auntie surprising a skunk. So when I said for the hell of it at the dinner table, "The dog's balls are literally dragging on the rug." I know I said it to get a rise out of my family intentionally, don't ask me why, and Sharon predictably hits right back, "Don't exaggerate you liar." Sharon seriously needs to undo her bun. My parents both sat there eating their peas and carrots as the don't-ask-don't-tell people that they are. And then, true to form, I hit up my phone again, as I always do, repeating the words I read to her in that up and down tone she hates on purpose, even though I already have the words memorized, "Exaggerating: A statement that represents something better or worse than it is." "Got it? Where is the word lying? Besides, Chomps is a goddam old unneutered Basset Hound for Chrissake." I remind her as if this is news. "Have you seen his legs? I've literally eaten egg rolls longer than them, so don't tell me that ball sack isn't dragging on that shag." Okay. She's got me on literally. Literally is an overused word of mine which may or may help prove Sharon's point, but if that ball sack is not dragging, it is damn close to a number measured only by millimeters. And the more Sharon tells me, "don't exaggerate, you liar" the more she feeds the beast, so excuse me Sharon, go suck it.

When I looked up cauliflower ear, I can't exactly say I was disappointed or maybe I can cause I am disappointed when there is a chance I could be proven wrong. The definition is rather specific: A deformity of the outer ear that may occur after injury to the ear. And I will find a way to use it, even if it does not exactly lend itself to the dilemma of how my ear felt when I got off the phone with Granny from Dayton, Ohio, not to be confused with Nana from Clearwater, Florida. It is fairly easy not to confuse my grandmothers. Nana from Clearwarer, Florida is literally about as tall as a giraffe and as skinny as a pogo stick. Her legs alone are a mile high and when I was little she always had to sit down before she could pick me up. Her hair is not silver, but rather blueish and she cuts it so close to her head it blends right in with the color of the spider veins running along her hairline down beneath her ear lobes. She wears nothing but dangly dollar store gypsy-like earrings and clogs in all colors and if it is raining she pulls out a color coordinated umbrella and vest to match, should the imperative need to venture out arise. These are just some of the things I know about her and more, and I can't exactly say why I know these things because I have not seen her since the fourth of July, the year before last or the year before the year before last. I often lose count of minor details and dates. But I do see pictures, so maybe that's how I know, or I just surmise. Surmising is definitely something I excel at, so says my math teacher. My other teachers don't say much of anything to me anymore other than, "Go to the principal's office, right now." Nana regularly sends mini videos to me and my sister and my parents via group MMS as if we care to know about her mahjong friend's heart attack, the price of chicken breast at the Piggly Wiggly and the number of people that did or did not show up for mass on any given Sunday. Even if she annoys me, I will still say she is kinda cool for an old lady. She knows how to use a phone. No kidding.

Granny, on the other hand, is nothing like Nana. At least she wasn't as far as being placed in the annoying category up until today. She is short, not short enough to be considered a dwarf, but short enough that she needs a step ladder for anything above the height of a first shelf. The last time we visited her I took notice of all those shelves she had in her kitchen, rows and rows of them; I did not understand the point of all the upper cabinetry, especially since she bought the house long after Grandpa Dayton, Ohio was dead. That man had some legs, but definitely not as long as Nana Clearwater's. I think. I only know him from the lopsided pictures of him taken besides Dayton Granny at their wedding, at a picnic, at the lake and then there is my favorite of him alone standing upright in his rookie Yankee baseball uniform. He coulda been one of the greats had it not been for the bone spurs, or his astigmatism, or some other minute hindrance known to smash a guys dreams. Details. Details. That minor fact alone does not stop me from bragging about my roots when a bunch a guys are hanging around shooting the shit about the playoffs. "You know," I say, cutting in without an invitation, my Grandfather was a pro ball player. Yankees. He played with the greats, ….DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra. Big names always gets em. "Yeah, yeah?" They all say, as in, "Hell, yeah. Yes. Do tell us more," yeah. Then I keep on walking like I got something more important to do when I really don't, it's just that I have nothing more to tell them. The only thing I know about Yankee baseball history are the few names I just quoted, who may or may not have ever set eyes upon my Grandfather in any uniform.

I surmise it was my mother who pulled out the rug and the chair, causing sweet Granny to become a turn coat. Why does my mother have to play us like that? Does she have nothing left up her sleeves? Does she even answer the calls from the principal anymore? Or has the principal stopped calling her? Beats me, cause she could have said something at the table instead of looking down at her plate as if it was a crystal ball. Why oh why does she have to go and mess up my thing with good old Dayton Granny. Before today, I'd literally hear from her twice a year, on my birthday and Christmas, asking me if I got the check she sent out to me in the mail. That's about it. Not today. And it's not even a holiday. It's friggin '4 p.m. on a Saturday in March and I've got better things to do than to listen to her voice on the other end of the land line, going on and on, Bradley this. Bradley that. All that crap about me not showing empathy, about me not applying myself, about me being disrespectful, about me exaggerating, please Dayton Granny, all the things that I had hoped were off your radar; please just stop before I hang up on you, but not before I do declare, even if it is only to the back of my right hand, that you literally just made my ear blow up as big as a goddam cauliflower.

Space for rent is where you make the mistake of getting a place with four close friends so that you can become worst enemies. After three months, none of the cool things you wanted to do have materialized. You wanted to start your own brewery, so you bought the Mr. Beer™, "brew-your-own" kit and drank it a week after it'd started fermenting. Well, not you, but Tom.

You can remember Tom telling you, "My pee is cloudy and clotted like a Belgian wheat ale with a hint of classy orange peel zest!"

"Bro, you drank my Mr. Beer Belgian Wheat Ale Orange-boy Extra Hoppy Hops Machine™?!"

"Yeah, we didn't have beer money." Stupid you!

"Whatever..."

All four of your roommates work as "dough-spinners" or "pie-pounders", two terms that you created in order to un-demoralize the $7.50 an hour that you make, because that's .25 cents more than the Georgia minimum wage and you were lucky to land that prestigious job in one of America's formerly most affordable cities according to an issue of Forbes written in 2008, when every city was as affordable as Atlanta.

"Bro, who ate all the food?" One of four roommates will ask the other three people they're living on top of.

"The food's communal, remember?" Someone reminds you of the "group huddle" that you had when the first box of clothing landed on the apartment floor. That same box hasn't moved in months.

"Bro, I bought it all!" You're right this time, it was you who bought those 20 boxes of macaroni and cheese, but everyone thinks everyone else is wrong. Someone's gotta be the freeloader, right? Well it sure as hell isn't you!

"Yeah, but we gotta have munchies!" Weed. You get it? It's funny because they were high and ate all the food, and now there's no food, and the next paycheck isn't for a week. Actually, I stand corrected, there's a partial pack of Carolina Pride Baloney™ in the crisper drawer that you got for a "steal" at .69 cents a pack. No one touches it because it cooks up like plastic.

There are eventually conversations like, "Why aren't you at work?" with answers like, "Didn't feel like it.", or, "Hey man, can I just borrow like..." this sentence is cut short with a long stare, "...ten dollars to pay for rent?" You know that "ten dollars" is code for, "I'm short about $400 on my $200 rent, but I got another paycheck coming in from poundin' pies and spinnin' dough so high, up in the sky! I'll get you back for last month and this month." You'll never see that money.

Then one day the fourth roommate is gone, they took the X-box with them that no one seems to be sure who originally owned, but they all swear it was theirs. The chairs are gone too, so is the beanbag and, well, all the electronics. All you're left with is a bunch of bills and the $500 bong everyone thought it would be super funny to pitch in on. Sorry, I was wrong again, they took the bong too. All you're left with is blunt wraps, and they're somewhere beneath the blanket of bills.

"Man, I'm so sorry dude. I can't get rent this month, but I'll get you back next month." It's weird that Tom says this, because he came home the night prior bragging about how he was super broke, because he needed to get a new tattoo.

"Are you kidding?!" As someone also in dire financial straits, who doesn't have a single tattoo themselves, you try to understand.

"Why do you need a tattoo?"

"Well it wasn't a tattoo, I was just getting some ink touched up."

"With what money?!"

"Oh, don't worry, I got a good deal." The good deal only cost him about $200 an hour down at Ink City. You know when he's lying. He says he was only there for two hours, but don't worry, Ink City does good work.

He then fills you in on the fact that, "You should get some ink!" All you can do is nothing.

No one has anymore money, you all begin to slowly hate one another, you ask each other to keep respective hands off of respective food, but no one listens. Then you start bringing "pies" back from Dough-Dumpster™. It's stuff you screwed up intentionally so that you could bring it home with you, but no one listens. You swap out pizzas to slight one another when you could all just agree on what pizza you want for that night, but the spite digs in, so there are four extra large pizzas, all with different toppings. They sit on the kitchen counter and sometimes roaches get on them.

At some point you get one of the remaining pint glasses out of your cupboard and fill it with classy Steel Reserve. No wait, you can't afford Steel Reserve anymore. Now it's Hurricane. Wrong again, it's actually Milwaukee's Best. Then half a day later, that 30 pack runs out and you're forced to buy Keystone Ice, but the flavor is unbearable. You used to have money for limes and salt so that you didn't have to taste any of what you were drinking. You're sitting there alone in the dark because the power is off and don't know what to do about the flavor, so you dissolve a pizza into your beer. Pizza-beer! You think it's funny, but it's not. It's the official drink of the Depression-Bowl™.

One day you're sitting on the living room futon on top of some hard pizzas. It was smashed with a bat in a drunken rage. You go to the dining room, because the dining room futon hasn't been smashed yet and has way less pizza on it. You're having trouble walking. Is it a stroke? No, it's an ocean of beer cans that touches your knees. Then it dawns on you, how are you always able to afford beer, weed, and smokes? Whatever.

Everyone quits their job then slowly disappears along with the remaining items, and so does your credit score. You play musical-apartments with random friends, you eventually end up on a friend's family member's friend's couch somewhere before he tells you it's Kind of weird. You and your former friends proceed to despise one another for the entirety of the next year. That's it.

Well not exactly, because one day you have a great new job at Tony Pepperoni's Pizza Party Palace™ making a comfy $8.50 an hour. You've been talking to those old friends again because the air has cleared. You're a drunk, so you've forgotten exactly where it all began, and then you see a place you can't afford on your own, but that has enough space for so many activities; a music and art studio, a spot for brewing beer, and a room for all your Funko Pops™ and other manchild gear. On the front of the door it has those magical words that make you remember all the fun you had living with your former roommates, "Space for rent".

.

As my world burned, the unexpected still lingered in the air, the wind dancing through

my hair, the pale moon painting silver patterns on my skin, lightning erupting the sky.

The heavens spoke with anger, with rolling, twisted screams.

Shouting all of my faults, and coloring the freshly painted scars as if crimson flowers

crafted of blood and countless lives

that breathed in me with strange,

brutal softness of supernovas expanding in hushed murmurs.

Destruction was sometimes made of whispers in the dark, and not of glass shattering

under the sun.

The Gods spoke with egos that night.

Covering me in rain and tides, flames and devastation,

slipping their fingers into my skin, digging dip into the muscles, and ripping my solar system apart, strumming each vein like a goodbye song.

Changing water into fire, droplets into flames, until I screamed without voice,

seeing my path clearly, and on broken heels stumbling through the mud

and the careless winds howling into my soul.

One last light, one breath, and all that remained was static after the storm, with unsteady thunders pressing into my beaten-up form.

My path grew wider and more secure

until my weaknesses became the once-forgotten strength.

I moved forward to you, my destination,

the other part to my dark, to my light, to the air scribbled in bold in my lungs, drawn like blue ink tattoos,

a map written in cursive, always speaking of you.

.

.

If I look into a mirror I see the sad, blue eyes of a worn out person. If the eyes are the gateway to the soul then what you see would make you turn away. But please, stay, I promise what you see is not the exact truth.

Step through the doorway into my soul and you will first come upon a rickety bridge with some wooden planks missing. Holding the pathway, steel-linked chains, which slightly sway, yet no wind is felt. There is a light, far away, at the end of the pathway, you feel hope looking at the light and attempt to get to it.

The first step squeaks under the pressure of your foot. The sound echoes in the darkness and you swear you can hear a child crying faintly beneath you. Fear grips your hands as they tremble holding onto the chains, but you continue toward the light. It begs you to continue despite the desire to turn back. Turn back. Every step worse, more screaming, just turn back. Please why do you continue?

"He's dead! NO!" Echoes...everywhere.

Your feet touch the firm ground, behind you the bridge sways side to side as a small child hangs on. Her white hands grasping on to wooden steps, the once blue eyes stained red and puffy staring back at you. The fear that built up on the bridge quickly disappeared only to be refilled with angst and doubt. Ahead, the light still shines and looks upon you still, longing for you to grasp it. From the darkness, a figure clad in armor appears. It walks toward you before stopping. Its' leather gloved hand motions you forward, a slight sense of calm washes over you. As you both walk together in silence, a forest opens up. Snarling echoes throughout the trees, dark creatures can be seen darting ahead. You stop as the leather gloved hand grasps your shirt. It gives you time to survey your new "friend".

The figure stood about five feet tall, it's head hanging against its' chest as if exhausted from the short walk. The broken armor, hung loosely on the body that wore black undergarments from head to toe. From the helmet, you can see the breath exhale and you realize it suddenly has gotten cold.

A shadow runs from the trees, you see it at out of the corner of your eye. As you slowly turn, an ugly creature with greenish, yellow skin, holes for noses, and bleeding red eyes scurries toward you. It's teeth scrape together, sounding as if a teacher scrapes her nails on a chalk board. It jumps at you bloodied hands outstretched toward you. Stepping away you trip on something beneath your feet and fall to the ground, covering your face to protect yourself, expecting at any moment to feel the creature upon your skin.

Snarling and screams fill the darkness, but are soon silenced. The smell is unbearable and the stickiness is absorbed by your skin, but you open your eyes to see the knight barely standing before you; hunched over on his sword. Around her the creatures of the forest, dead. She had taken his helmet off, though it was cracked in half and was of no use. She had pulled her black hood off and the red long hair, drenched in blood, lay upon her backplate. You wanted to console her, but a voice in the forest draws you away. Her blue eyes fall upon you as you drift away. Her half smile burned into your memory as the voice brings you down a dirt path.

It becomes colder as you continue down the path and you find the short sleeve shirt you are wearing is not the appropriate attire anymore. Rubbing your hands on your bare arms, you continue onward and the forest transforms into a dark desert land. The sky is filled with stars, the milky way, and calmness. There is peace, the first feeling of no fear or dread. On the horizon, the light beckoned you on and for once you felt the path would be easy.

"INCOMING!"

A soldier appearing from nowhere grabbed you and threw you to the ground. Behind you an explosion, cement exploded into the air. You looked around and the peaceful desert was a flame with a gun battle. Soldiers screaming in pain lay in the distance and occasional red flares exploded in the now cloudy sky. The soldier that saved your life, stood up and motioned for you to follow behind a wall. All the emotions you have felt built up, feeling the need to explode, like the missiles above. The blue-eyed soldier wearily smiles at you.

"Home is that way." The soldier remarked while pointing toward the light; it was being covered slightly by the smoke.

"Come home too?" You ask. The blue-eyed soldier looks at the ground, focusing on a slow moving beetle.

"I've lost something, I need to find it first." The blue-eyed soldier teared up and looked at you. "I'll be fine. Go home." She said wearily, before standing up and walking into the smoke. Tears fill your eyes as the emotion overwhelms you as you begin to run toward the light. The warmth is on your face, the light is in your grasp, but suddenly you find yourself falling.

Frustration took over and you let out a yell, for you have found yourself in a pit with no way out.

"I just want to leave!" Your voice doesn't echo, it falls flat against the mud walls. On the opposite wall, the blue-eyed soldier sat with her back against the wall, helmet on the ground, in full gear, with her rifle, muzzle pressed under her chin. Her eyes were closed and she breathed slowly.

What do you say? Is there anything? You try to climb out, scale the wall, scream, but nothing happens. Should you help the soldier? Can you? Defeated, you fall to the ground and stare.

"Peace, I dream of peace." The soldier remarked. "I fight demons everyday." She pushed herself up and offered her hand. "You can't get out alone. I'll help you." You sit on the edge of the pit and watch the soldier below. You could help, but how? Around, the trees walk away, taking their vines with them. The weeds refuse to grow and the only living creature is a dog that sleeps beside the pit as if to comfort the lost one below.

You look into my soul and you would get lost and run away. Enter my mind and you will find the wild west, the dragons fighting Robin Hood, and the lost memories burned into my soul. I wish for peace in all these realms, that one day the chaos of war and trauma comes to close. Yet, my soul was the sacrifice I would make again for you to be able to go home and stay in the light.

Death is the end of the adventure, the ultimate destination. We enter stage right, born into a world of summer and winter; we exit stage left, departing our body and fading into oblivion. There's a sort of fear of the unknown inherent to humanity, a lingering terror of no longer being, but there's also comfort, if you look for it.

Dying is what makes life so precious. We know that our lives will one day draw to an end, that there will come a day with no tomorrow. We ought to make the most of the time we have, our days are numbered, our moments matter. There's an existential dread that arises when we think about dying, a lingering terror of no longer being, but there's also an exhilaration, if you look for it.

Life and death are deeply intertwined, all living things die, all things that die must first live. This is not good, this is not bad, this simply is. Life brings joy and connection in tandem with suffering and pain, we grow and strive until we can grow no further and strive no longer, and then we rest, we lay ourselves down to an endless sleep. Death remedies all the pains of our lives; if we no longer exist, we no longer suffer. There's a tragic fatalism that follows the thought of the inevitability of death, but there's also a bittersweet peace, if you look for it.

To die is to have been alive, and I am not afraid of death.

When I was younger, trapped in that dark and turbulent mire between the golden days of childhood and the bemused professionalism of adulthood, I longed for death. I had a morbid fascination with the idea of no longer being, because if I no longer was, then I could escape all the sadness and persistent fatigue.

I don't judge my younger self for her fascination, I understand the allure of death. I am still not immune to the seductive idea of eternal rest, eternal peace. I do not view death as something negative, but rather as an inevitable aspect of being alive.

I am grateful for the fact of death, I know that I could not go on living forever. Immortality sounds like a miserable, awful, exhausting sort of existence. My heart beats and I know that one day it will stop, and that will be the day with no tomorrow, and there's a comfort in that knowledge, the knowledge that one day I can lay down my bag filled with a lifetime of memories, I can stop walking forward, I can sit, I can rest.

When I reach that day, the day with no tomorrow, I hope my death is calm and quiet, I hope I am permitted to slip gently into bed, into an endless sleep. If my death is violent and sudden, so be it, that moment will pass, and so will I.