If given a choice, I would wish for the arc of my life—its gentle
descent into death—to resemble the slow, spiraling drift of a star
circling a black hole. Not a violent or a sudden fall, but a measured
approach, with my mind still clear and my body still capable—capable
enough not having to lean on someone for every breath, for every step.
I want it to be an arc where the mind, acutely aware of the nearing
event horizon, will enter that boundary not with regret of something
ending, but with the grace of something ending well.
A quiet surrender. A return home.
I want within me a calm acceptance when it is time to give back the calcium I borrowed to shape the scaffolding of my bones.
That, to me, would be the perfect arc—the quiet fading of life into the inevitability of death.
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