I cannot presume to say what every death feels like. I can only speak to my own, and it was really not all that interesting once the knife was removed and the murderer escaped, but I will do my best to enlighten the reader as to its effects upon my body, and also to its effects on my inner thoughts at the curious moment of passing.

I can tell you that the wound succombed quickly to shock, so there was little pain, but there was the freightening knowledge of something terribly wrong, of some important thing inside of me being irreparably damaged. Having little knowledge of anatomy I cannot say for certain sure what that something was, but the blood was dark in color, almost black, so I suspect it was the liver, or a kidney, that suffered the injury.

The blood was also plentiful. It pooled quickly around me until every appendage of my body layed within it. It even touched my face so that its strangely sweet odor filled my nostrils until I accepted the smell of the blood as being the smell of death itself. I recall being shocked at the amount, and presumed correctly that a body cannot lose that amount of blood and survive.

With the shock and the blood loss came the cold... a deep, down to the bone cold that sent my muscles into spasms which served to push the blood out of the wound even faster than my heart-beat could push it alone. The spasms acted upon my blood vessels like squeezing a sponge as my body did what it could to speed up the natural process that it evidently knew had begun. In a final effort at self preservation I curled myself into a fetal position, my arms pressing into the wounded area in a feeble attempt at both warmth and to thwart the flow of blood. The effort was far too little, and it was far too late.

And finally came the exhaustion, an overwhelming desire to sleep that pressed against my eyelids with an enormous weight that willed them shut, a feeling not unlike the sun will give you after a heavy afternoon meal. My eyes closed under that weight. Sleep massaged my temples with the gentlest of fingers, but something inside my head, something in the folded gray matter of my brain railed against it, knowing that at this point in time, every second, every feeling, every thought was sacred and I must induce one more of each! To sleep was to never awaken, but I was so very tired. I wondered then that I could really die! I would be no more. In my vanity that did not seem plausible, that the world could carry on without me. Of course I had always known that I could die, that I would die... someday... but now that it was upon me it did not seem acceptable. Who gave that person, that murderer, the right to end me, to take the only thing that really belonged to me and to run away into the night? How is it that he should live and not me? I, to die? I, who was life's greatest advocate! I, who was filled only moments ago with joy and song? I, to vanish as though I had never existed?

But it was true, and so I did. And the world did go on. And the earth did still turn, and the heavens did still expand. A few tears were shed, and then the life that I held so dear ceased of its importance, and its appointments, and its deadlines, and its pleasures so that the hole my absence left on the earth's face was no greater than the hole left when you pull your finger from a glass of water.

The End

Dying mirrors Autumn

Eclipsing Life; Death’s Canyon

Gold betrays cerulean

Buried beneath horizons

Frost kisses the drying grass

Temps fall in darkened shadows

Mist, that only briefly lasts

Time’s run out of tomorrows

Crimson leaves with tattered edges

Curl; hollowed and fragile

Dressing elder branches

Winds strip, barren and cripple

Garden’s beauty slowly fades

Bright blushes, bleeding pale

Earthen-brown and ashen-gray

Dusts withered roses, frail

Blizzards bite the brittle bones

Piercing to heart’s flesh

Fields prepared with tombstones

Pruned; the Earth’s winepress

Death; Winter, perpetual

Our life drifting to sleep

Cut away; asunder

Their prayers, we “Rest In Peace”

Beauty of our beings

Remains; in black and white

Memories, indelible

Gripped, they treasure, tight

Tears tumble, flooding crevices

Rainbows alighting azure

Hope distilled of promises

Most blessed are the pure

Reliving Spring and Summer

Alive within their bosoms

Flowers bloom forever

With sweet fragrance of our blossoms

Days stretch out to lengthen

Summer’s sunsets speak

As scrolls; pastels once hidden

The Impressionist: Mystique

Summer meets with Autumn

In a blink; the page flips over

Winter falls upon them

Life leaves; goodbye, forever?

Winter yields eternal Spring

Though flesh, the ground consumes

Our final breath, believing,

Draws our spirits; all things new

***

photo credit: mummy

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Death, at last, has come to claim me.

He stands there, dark and foreboding,

Black hood drawn over a face that I have come to fear.

To hate.

He pulls down the hood,

Wearing my face as if it were a trophy.

“Do not be afraid,” He says, a soft smile shifting over his face— my face.

The joy showed, the peace filling the corners of my hollow eyes and empty cheeks.

Could it be so easy?

His hand reaches for me, the room suddenly feeling light,

As if all the troubles in the world were solved.

With nothing left to do, nowhere to run,

I have no choice but to take his hand.

As his fingers wrap around mine, warm and inviting, I step closer.

He pulls me close, holding me like a sacred child.

I will never forget how peaceful, how calm,

How sincere he was.

He took my pain, shouldering my burdens as if they were no more than feathers.

And using those feathers, the troubles of myself and so many others, he pulled me away to a place made of clouds.

On the wings of Death, all my woes lifted,

Dying, the ferryman showed me, feels a lot like flying without the fear of falling

As the light fades out

And our breathing halts

We are met with the end

The end we all fear

Yet when it comes

It is not scary

No

It is welcomed

It is desired

It is nothingness

As our being withers

We are met with peace

We feel the anxiety

The depression

The hate

Slowly fade as we accept

That we are now blissfully nothing

The world turns to black as your body begins to become freezing cold. From your fingertips to your toes, you're turning into ice, but then from the cold, a warm, calming sensation rushing through your body. You're only going to sleep. It's a nice, comforting feeling. If you could move the muscles to your face still, you would be smiling. You realize that Death isn't something to fear. He's an old friend saying hello and embracing you. As your last breath fades and your heartbeat stops, Death holds your hand in his, guiding you to the afterlife.

I always hoped dying felt like falling asleep, but it really doesn’t matter. It’s not like you’re going to remember it. You just cease to exist. I don’t believe in an afterlife, so that’s it.

Humans fear mortality, and I truly understand being fascinated with the things that scare you. However, we will never know what it feels like to die because dead people can’t talk.

The moral of the story is time is precious and death is final. It’s important to make the most of the life you have.

Sometimes it’s hard to imagine death. When you don’t know for sure where you’re going. If we die and no more. Or we die and some more. I wonder how it feels. If I will still fear; I will be sad or feel pain; I will feel guilt or full of regrets; or could be happier and contented. Everything may be puzzling, but there’s one thing I know for sure—Resurrection and God’s love and grace!