I can feel myself decaying. A slow, black rot from the inside. Dark moods hang over me like a shroud, and I can taste myself. Rancid, infected, festering. I can almost smell the sick, sweet stink of death. Something is wrong.
I have always flirted with death, always had a sincere fantasy for it. A fascination with the way it would end. I never thought I'd go swiftly. I'm far too strong to die fast. So I fight, clutching at life and death equally, crushing them in my lover's embrace. I will be burned down to ash before they take me and bury me in my grave. I will die hard, and leave a scarred reminder of how I went.
Once, I thought I was bound for greatness. My mind, my strength, my will could somehow change this world. I would do something meaningful. Whether with cunning or storytelling, by seizing power or by writing of those who are powerful. I thought I would be magnificent. I never dreamed of it, because dreams are for those who will live, and death has always been a part of me. But I knew that when I hurled open the gates of Valhalla, I would be welcomed. Now, I feel saddened.
Thoughts of greatness are for the bold, the capable. The infirm, those cursed with this gradual decline and decay, we are no more capable of greatness than the lowest slave. The most base of urges. I will not be welcomed. I will be revolting to my dearest gods.
There is a thinness to my being. Not in flesh or bone, but a thinness nonetheless. The tether that holds me bound to this world, this plane, this realm, is thinning. My body strains through the days, lumbering on in the absence of direction. My sails are in tatters, my rudder is smashed. The ship is taking on water. But it plods on toward shore. Clawing for purchase. Gasping for breath. Labored, straining, and failing.
The land is distant, yet.
Wretchedly Yours,
-S.R.
