If life tapped me on the shoulder and told me its time to go, I would be devastated. Not from my own loss but that I haven’t finished yet. I’ve not written my soul upon a page complete, I’ve not learned enough to have no anger left and I haven’t loved enough for me to accept my potential worth. All this would plague my necrotic vessel, lying there on a slab, void of anything left of value. And above a soul floating, wandering in vacant confusion for all I have not finished in my life. It is my fear above all things that transition comes too early and this life is incomplete from my intention and perspective. Of course its not my call, but it would rather aggravate me knowing there were words I hadn’t used, ideas I hadn’t explored and loves I hadn’t met yet.
I may be greedy, expect too much from the life I have ultimately driven into the ground. Yet, the idea of leaving too soon does bother my ever-thinking brain. I’m not lazy and I’m not trying to score more time than I’m worth. But I am writing incessantly all the thoughts and beauty I can fit into a life without removing the concept of sleep. So I do ask in serious and respectable plea, that I can remain long enough to get this monkey off my back. This quest of writing is my love, my burden and my epiphany.
Coming to terms…
We all come and go, it is our place in life. This cycle I accept unequivocally, yet the idea that I could not finish a sentence, is appalling and quite disturbing. Writers pride themselves on expression, finished expression. Oh please do not take me mid sentence: pondering a word I just can’t recall or when I’m scribbling down an idea that would have been my best novel yet. It’s not much to ask, really, just neater that way, like finally finishing a book and every plot and sub-plot is resolved. So when the reaper comes and points that bony finger at me, beckoning me to follow, I may just say, “I haven’t finished yet”, and keep on typing.
Tony DeLorger © 2016