I write to free myself from the regret of trusting, again and again, the empty promisses of the inadequate. Because of the lies told while looking you in the eye. The inconsequential lies in the face of the inevitable.
Truth is, it doesn’t matter what any authority tells you. When you know deep down that they’ll screw up, as they always do in their positions of authority, all you can do is sign up for the band wagon and jump on for the ride. Because as soon as you’ve signed over your illusion of control over to them, everything else is essentially out of your hands but your self-control.
I suppose I’m angry, because things didn’t work out precisely as I wished. I didn’t have enough control over the situation, enough to go over their heads and do better.
I find myself thinking at night, ‘if only… ‘
I hope that there was no suffering.
I doesn’t matter what you request, they don’t care at the end of the day. They just need to do their job and find something to say that matches the situation they’re tending to.
Although I know they’re probably good at their job. The fact is, as human beings they lack levels of subtlety and that is where my frustration comes from. They just don’t understand what is being asked of them.
And so the moment arrives, and we’re asked to make a decision.
The facts are there, we even doubt the diagnosis at hand. We bargain with the inevitable.
Time isn’t on our side, we’re negociating for what is already written in stone.
Fate had taken over since already a while.
Could one prevent the suffering? The single tear in those last moments. The existential acknowledgement that those pained last seconds would ultimately run out. Time fleeting, senses numbed, body assisted.
Regrets? And what if there were regrets? What could be done? Where there any second chances? Anything possible for those last moments? Something to say, something to express? Anything?
Of course, one speaks. It all sounds like some scripted telenovella. Against the current of the perfect Golden-silence, any word falls short. So one tries to say something of meaning, but it doesn’t matter. We all know. We all understand. The love was during the journey, the love was in our exchange, in our actions, not at ones deathbed. There are no words well enough to live up to that type of moment.
Of course, there is a pressure, to live up to say the right thing, even the wrong thing, anything. But nothing comes up that hasn’t already been said. So one squeezes their hand just a little tighter while realizing that it’s out of our control.
With fate at the drivers seat, one can only help but observe as the sand melts through one’s fingers.
Of course, the only thing that matters is that you’re there. And even that doesn’t matter. What matters is the time one consciously spent. The seeds carefully planted, the memories to be relived. The laughs, the warmth, the good times, the vulnerability, the patience, the protective and well-meaning intent, the exchange during our time here.
What matters is past, what matters is already part of you. What is happening while grasping to hold on to the last grains of sand – right now – is the realization that there is no more time and that the Love and warmth we once felt emanating will soon go Cold.
Only in our perception of this stellar warmth can we replicate, can we incorporate, can we become what we saw within them. But if we see, then we already know, and if we know, we already are. It’s a matter of acknowledgement. A transcendence in reverse, a heritage from one life to another.
One can only empathise with that single last tear, and fill it with our collective understanding of what it means. And even in the utter and complete assurance that there would be no suffering, that one wouldn’t acknowledge that this is indeed the end, that single tear is not accidental. That single tear, I translate as:
‘Do not worry. There is so much I would have done with you, so much I had to say. If I could only hug you one last time and tell you it will all be alright. It’s the realization that I didn’t take care of myself and cost my time with you. It’s the realization that there’s no turning back now. It’s the letting go of our material condition. It’s the fear, the love, the hope, the ambitions, the regret, the pride, the faith, the strength and all emotions pertaining to going through one’s memories and feelings one last time. It’s straining to take those last breathes one at a time, each one more demanding than the last. It’s the inability to open one’s eyes, and the lack of power to come back. It’s the gentle and subtle acknowledgement that we’re slipping away… It’s hearing without being able to say things back. It’s feeling trapped in a state of fleeting… Do not worry, you’ve got this. You’re stronger than you think you are. I’m proud of you. I’m here and will always be watching over you. Keep your mother and sister safe. Don’t be afraid, you can do this.
Take care. Dad…‘