Daily life, essay, death

When was the beginning of my life?

I know the poem, the space, the person who was together. I don’t remember. I guess at that time, even if they were alive, wouldn’t they be like being unconscious? It’s just the little breath, the mumbling movement, the occasional palate, all the clues to the change. The end of this journey of life.

The day comes as time goes by. And, as all of us do, we set one goal. I will live a life that is completely excluded from the bucket list. I’ll just live my daily life. The ideal life, in which daily life is an ideal, seems to fit best in the end. We can’t deny the fact that we didn’t like all the items we had, all the thoughts we had, all the ways to go, but in fact, we tried to take it, and go to it harder than anyone else.

So at the end, without deciding what to take, what to do, and where to go, I just want to look at the eye, hold the touch of the hand, and go where the foot touches.

To me, if I still have the power to do that.

It is a short essay submitted by a writing club to a task called My Last Writing. It didn’t take long to get around this topic and set the direction of the writing. I wanted to write a goal rather than a suicide note. Frankly, I couldn’t get into the feeling that I was going to die tomorrow.

Not because I have a lot to do, but because I don’t think it’s time yet.