It starts with the thought.
The thought that randomly, yet frequently reoccurs.
It slams its way into my head and holds on tight.
The thought that with every fleeting second, minute, hour, day, month, year, my life is slowly ending.
I am slowly dying.
The thought that whether I live in Heaven or fail to live at all,
it will be the end.
I will cease to exist.
Yet it's not that I, alone, will die,
but that some day,
some day soon,
everything will cease to exist.
And then what?
I know when I'm dead I won't care,
but I'm not dead,
so I care,
and I hate that.
Now the floor has dropped from my feet and I am falling.
but I'm not,
I'm still, sitting comfortably in my chair, as my throat is sucked into my stomach
and countless butterflies swarm inside,
but these aren't the loving kind.
These butterflies are the kind that make my heart beat slower
taking with it my breath and my ability to make more.
I am helpless.
I am helpless as I wait for the thought to pass my mind.
But for now, I wait,