It took me a long time to comprehend what the pit feeling in my soul means. It crept up upon me like a dead fist washes onto the shore, coming in and pulling back and then coming in closer and pulled back just a little less more, over and over until it settles onto the sand. It began with diminutive episodes of anxiety that would quickly be smothered out by fun-filled nights with friends or passionate sex with my lover. But the foreboding never failed to return. And Foreboding is unpredictable: He will sometimes hang around for an extended stay, and sometimes take a long vacation but then arrive again unannounced and unpredictably. With every visit we develop a deeper bond and understand one another more clearly.
I am certain now that this is the feeling of Death. I see it when my eyes find their reflection in the mirror. I inhale it as I awaken daily. I hear it in the static of conversations. I am not hearing voices in my head, but I can feel the terror of Death that most people that I am surrounded by are blessed enough to be muted to. I constantly search for a way to shake it but I am fearing that it has taken too firm of a hold of me at this point for me to ever hope to be able to escape. My Death is coming soon.
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