Where is He Going?

 

Someday,
there comes a moment—
a quiet moment—
of giving back
all that we borrowed:

to love, to hate,
to hope, to despair,
to create, to destroy,
to smile, to cry,
to care, to ignore,
to rejoice, to mourn,
to covet, to give,
to steal, to return,
to envy, to praise,
to live—
and then, to forget.

The Perfect Fading

 

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.

Event Horizon

 

Life is like a star—
 caught in orbit,
   around the black hole
     of mortality—
       of death—
         of impermanence.
Its pull:
  constant.
    invisible.
      inescapable—
        spiraling us in,
          toward its event horizon.

Things That Break

 

One day here — gone tomorrow;
things that break —
are ours to only borrow.
But in between — if there's a chance —
share a stranger’s
happiness — and sorrow.