pink sky

A Practice in Dying

The sky was pink the day I died.

The clouds were like puffs of cotton candy.

Even the planes overhead looked as if I were wearing rose-tinted glasses.

That’s when everything began to blur and melt together,

like I was looking at a Monet painting up close.

The cold, unyielding asphalt underneath me began to soften and distance itself,

as if I lay on a mirage, its watery haze gently supporting my dissipating body.

My limbs began to lighten and float away from me.

The sounds of the scuffle surrounding me became more and more out of focus,

like I was tuning my internal radio to a different station.

There was a peaceful, decadent disconnect between myself and everything else.


I knew,

in those last moments,

I had indeed existed.

My essence pulled away from the trappings of my earthly life and physical body,

separating from that which it had employed to define itself for so long,

and—with this final act—at last existed in its true form.

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