My own terms

Another bottle of Horlicks and another basket of oranges arrived today. One person presented me with a joke book. He’s never so much as uttered a joke, let alone appreciate one, and he tries to pep me up with a joke book. I’m ill, and the doctors have declared that I’ll probably die. Suddenly, my place is swarming with people with words of pity.

I’ve known people to describe me as hateful, wretched, sweet, generous, pompous, proud and what not. Now all I am, is an object of pity. I’d like to at least feel that I’ve earned it. I haven’t. I did nothing to get this disease. It just came and presented itself, and my body accepted. I wasn’t even there during the transaction. I was away breaking someone’s heart, and there’s no one who is willing to give me the credit for that.

I’ll soon be sitting in some bed with only the murmur of the many machines as solace. I’ll look at them fearing a blackout. What will happen to me, if the power goes off. All I’ll have is my thoughts. I don’t plan to keep visitors too long. I don’t want to erase the adjectives they have for me in my mind. I want to remain as memories. Memories that are specific to me. The human mind’s so forgetful. If I allow too many people to see me, they’ll forget what I was and look at a frail me and well up in tears. I can’t stand that. To live forever’s become such an urgent dream now. I’m rich, only rich enough to drag my life for a few more milliseconds, perhaps another hour. I’ve been good, for the most part, but not good enough that I can validate a petition for immortality. The only way I can remain is in memories. I’ve said that one too many times, but that’s all I can say.

I must die before I get worse. I must die before everything becomes unbearable. I’m running away from life really fast, hoping to bump into death really quickly. Maybe the collisions will have an impact at my molecular level, that I’ll spring right back to life. Its such a crazy thought, that defies every law, every science that I’ve learnt, but I’m sitting with enough time to dwell on them, feeling a misdirected sense of purpose.

I’ve always lived on my own terms. My own – ones that I’ve devised. Risks, that I was willing to take, mistakes that I was willing to pay for. Why should death be any different. I cannot sit and watch behind glass doors, looking at the doctors throwing numbers at random. 4 months, 6 months, a year, 2 years. I don’t care. I want to live an ordinary life, die an ordinary death. There must be something left of me to burn. Organs of value. But I think I’ve done it. Figured out a way to die, that is. Its strange that I want to desperately die because I want to live on. Live on as words, as thoughts, as experiences, as exasperation, as joy. They’ll probably call me a coward for doing this. They’ll probably call me stupid, silly, someone who didn’t believe in the power of miracles. They’ll call me all that, I hope. Someone who truly sympathizes with me, can’t call me a coward, can they ? That really is my point. I want all the joys of a normal human being. I don’t want to be raised on a pedestal, and I don’t want to be cited as an example. I didn’t deserve it. I planned my death, meticulously, properly. Time of death – around 7 pm. Same time as I was born. I came a complete circle – on my own terms.