seVen

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SEVEN days left.
 
SEVEN days until I am no longer… this.
 
Somehow, every year on the SEVENth of April, everything changes— beginning with the number of years I have been on this planet, in this plane.
 
And thus, as it has been foretold, twilight is now upon the thirty-two. Death has climbed the stairs of this Porch, and thumps this Door with the butt of her scythe. I peer through the curtains at her invisible form— invisible to all but me.
 
What is it I feel at this sight?
Fear? No…
Sadness? No…
Regret? No…
 
Unless it is the fear of this body, imagining vaporization…
Unless it is the sadness of this mind, driven by empathetic anguish..
Unless it is the regret of this spirit, appalled at the pile of fruitless years trailing behind…
 
Thirty-three.
Double three.
Six total— time to let go, release, move on.
 
Time to die.
 
 
 
Now I eye this Doorknob… feeling the electrical impulses shoot from my brain to my fingers… cheered on by an uncountable Host… and Death has now struck SEVEN times.  
 
 
 
Will I answer?
 
 
 
Will I…?
 
 
 
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