Life is a fickle thing.
It twists its spindly hands around
the gossamer threads of destiny.
It passes like a breeze rippling
in the water and changing the paths
of the tides. It feels like fireworks, beauty
and pain pressed together in an
explosion of glitter and colour.
Existence, despite its constant comparison
to the breeze, the tides, and the fireworks,
is not something that should be confused
with life. Existence is simply an act;
the passing of time over the space of
one’s consciousness.

The air was sweet, smelling of honey and fresh rain, blowing whispers of secrets against her skin. A tall oak tree stood in the distance, its proud canopy casting golden beads against the horizon.

A warm blanket of light hugged her as she walked towards it, wrapping her its gentle embrace. She sunk against it, resting her back on its sharp ridges and tucking her legs gingerly beneath her.  

She was tired. Something unusual was pressing heavy on her chest, weighing her limbs down onto the floor. She wasn’t sure she could ever get up again.

Her emerald eyes quivered shut, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings as they disappeared behind her eyelids. It was as though her body was preparing her, dispelling the continuous pulsation of fatigue and preparing her for eternal rest.

Death: Noun. The opposite of existence.
Crows and crosses and graveyards.
A cloaked skeleton with gouges for eyes,
lanky fingers wrapped tight around a scythe.
Associated with a drowning feeling in your gut,
a deep ache in your chest, and the pouring of
waterfalls in your eyes.
It’s something many people try to oppose against.
They think they can resist it.
They think it can be delayed.
But I am Death.
I am not a thing to be feared.
I am not a curse.
I am not evil.
I am simply a job. A result.

Dreams were a thing of her past. As of recently, it was as though her sleep had been plagued by darkness, haunted by the evil hiding just beyond the shadows, the demons lurking in the most hidden corners of her mind, and the dark smoke billowing in the air.

They weren’t flashes of events, or horrorful noises. No: more like colours and feelings of immense misery. Darkness swirled in her mind, the black hole of existentiality swallowing her in its wide mouth, claws piercing her skin and breath filling her with dread.

She mumbled unhappily; laboured breathing from restless sleep, her mouth twisted into an ugly frown and nose scrunched up with unease.

She could feel something coming. Her heart was palpitating, pressing against her rib cage as though giving up on itself.

I’d been watching her for weeks.
She was happy, unusually contented
in her own seen reality.
She was living, not just existing.
She knew this life she had was precious,
and knew how to appreciate the little things.
She knew what control the claws
of time had over her fate, and what little
demand she had over the inevitable.
But despite it all, despite her
intelligence, despite her understanding,
she was afraid, because she knew.
She could feel it in the depths of her
 heart, pulsing and desperate to surrender.
She could feel it scratching at her
 stomach, trying to get away.
It was her time: she needed to move on.
Yet, she was still resisting.

As a child, her mother would often tell her that every dream meant something. How you live during your existence effects the delicate petals of time and space. Every stone moved and every puddle splashed alters, breaks and retwines the pale cobwebs of reality. Her mother warned her that all dreams reflect truth. They may replay the past or predict the future, but it’s your own free will that determines whether you’ll willingly follow your destined path or make nature force it upon you.

Since the death of her mother, however, it was as though that peaceful, reassured side of her broke. The gut feeling she once harboured, the one telling her she was ready for all of destiny’s plans, felt eerily distant. It felt scary, deep, entirely out of her own control. The twisted screams of her mother during the murder echoed in her mind, ringing exponentially in her eardrums.

She was afraid, because she knew. She could feel in her bones that something was reaching for her, and against everything she’d learnt, she pushed back. Her heart strained, tied between two worlds.

She was laying against the oak tree,
the one I’d come to many times
before to contemplate existence, life,
and death. She was waking
from the storm that grew in
 her mind every
time she rested her eyes. My
steps were silent, movements
gentle and welcoming. I sat beside her as
she stirred, placing a small distance
between our shoulders. 

When she awoke, He was there, watching her carefully. She knew instantly who He was, and no longer felt afraid, the prickly uncertainty making way for something peaceful. There was no scythe, no skeleton, no gouged-out eyes: simply kindness, warmth, and a smile promising something better for tomorrow.

She let go. She stopped pushing back, willingly passing Him her heart:

She let Him take her into His arms.