I often wonder what it’s like to have life leave my body. How my body would grow numb and I would no longer feel any tingle. How my breath would slowly, yet swiftly leave me wanting and how my once happy, no, almost happy heart would string chords of a dirge. I have fantasized about you, muerté, in more ways than one. I have danced very close to the edge of this shaky precipice and only then did I realize, all na mouth. It takes a lot of strong mental resolve to even attempt to invite the grim reaper intentionally. We all fear death, some more than others.
I have thought about my mother, how she’d feel the pain of those nine months all over again, just that in this case there’s no joy in the air. I’ve wondered how my procession would solemnly align, moving rather reluctantly towards my graveyard. Nobody wants to lose anybody. I’ve thought about how lonely it would be, mahn, it’s six feet deep with a pocket. How vain this life is and how forgetful I am.
I’ve come to realize that you’re inevitable regardless of age, status or standing. You’d do His bidding when He wills it. I have come to know that you are a reality we always forget, an essential eventuality. It’s what we, humans, all have an equal share of.
Muerté, I wish for one thing though, that you leave my soul in my body when it’s best and take it only when my deeds would earn me His Jannah; that I fully receive His pardon before I happily follow you.
A Soul on the Queue.
Muerté is a noun in the Spanish dialect meaning “death”.