Old Friends.

Let me tell you a story, wanderer. Let me tell you a story, wanderer.

Let me set the scene.

The first time I thought I'd met with Death,

I was this little thing.

I'd just eaten a bit too much,

Or so the doctor said.

They took me to the hospital

And I was told to lose some weight, fix my small body, how simple

So it wouldn't happen again.

Years later, I still struggle with

Breathing problems from time to time,

Ask my inhaler if you doubt me

Panic attacks make me lose my breath as well, yet another factor

Not sure "pigging out" and softness were truly the issue, anymore.

And don't get me wrong, we see little glimpses of him at random, don't we?

When you take that near misstep off the stairs and imagine ourselves tumbling, tumbling...

When we close our eyes and try to flash forward, try to imagine what it would be like to drown, to sink, to fly?

Death and I are old friends.

Old friends that have never truly met.

He's been a comfort in times Life was so difficult I couldn't breathe, anymore.

The thought of him reminded me of a peace I am yet to know.

So I wrote him letters, called to him desperately, asked for freedom the only way I knew how

And Death, kind as he is, said nothing.

Some days, I'm still unsure of whether he did me a service or the opposite

I'm still here, still alive and still kicking despite..

I'm not okay, not quite yet

But I can tell you genuinely that I got better.

Sometimes I still dance with a dream of him in the shadows of my mind

But I'm learning to let go.

He'll visit at his own time

And when he does?

We'll meet like old friends, do our little dance once the show is over

For now though, his disinterest in my pleas has made him my biggest cheerleader.

So let's give this thing a good go for as long as it lasts.