You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman



The words shiver in fear. I can feel them tremble, crammed inside the pen I hold, point hovering on a piece of blank paper, dry and thirsty for ink. The words are etched clearly on my mind but I find myself doubtful of the consequences their truths will hold for me. I might as well be pointing a gun to my head. To face death and truth seems like the same thing and dying is the only undisputed way to liberate myself into life.

The lines were blurred and both paths converged into a single thought—a question that required an immediate answer, which incontrovertibly led to a choice. And that choice is in here, in my hand, quivering in terror. Putting it into words and immortalizing it within the durable nature of printed letters is terrifying—the finality of it and the unmistakable evidence that it exists. It’s like giving a ghost a face or an eerie darkness a name. But I am doing this in the hope that I will find peace beyond this hostile territory of fear and indecision. All I need to do is to scribble the words and take a step over onto the other side of this line that divides the air breathe.

Thinking is a dangerous thing. There had been too much time and I spent most of it pondering and wondering. I don’t want to think. Not anymore. Reason itself had taken hold and corrupted my thoughts and I no longer have the heart to argue with it. I am trapped. I solely based this decision on instinct and what’s left of my conscience. The moment it felt like time wouldn’t run out, was the same moment it felt like the world had stopped. And so I am here, pointing the gun to my head, a quivering finger posed to pull the trigger. The heart races, preparing to take flight into the unknown. My breathing frantic in anticipation of a foreshadowed reality, where the air is ever clean as the souls who breathe it in. My pen is the barrel of the gun hoping the bullets would penetrate every functioning sense and carry me over to the other side—where time flies fast and the world spins madly on…

The point finally made contact on the paper’s surface, and very slowly forged cursive letters, elegant and perfect despite the uncontrollable tremors in my hand. I gawked at them, surprised for they were not the truths I was expecting. Pupils dilated, breathing stopped and blood grew stagnant in the absence of a functioning heart. Death at last…

…and then life.