My Game, My Performance
Don’t look at me like that.
They pry my eyes open with desperate fingers, looking for a sign, a flicker, a flash. But if they thought they could see such a thing, as if it were my life, I pity them.
Cry for yourselves, idiots. If you are sorry for the memories I have not made with you, be sorry for the memories you have not made with me. I have known this day would come. Had I not tenderly watched over you these past months? Had I not been an ear to your doubts, hopes, desires? Had I not been there for the countless many of you?
I wonder, as I have many times before. What if, I had just let it happen? Let fate do its work and let events happen as they may? You would be on the road, dear, not me. It would be your life draining outward from your body, not mine. Gushing! Pouring out, dear! It is something as simple as blood.
Would Death come to haunt me, put every obstacle forth that it could conjure, not letting me live for another precious moment? No–perhaps it be the guilt? Carving away at my conscious mind chunk by chunk, like a victimized pumpkin on Halloween? I could be a decoration for you doorstep, Mister! Silly me, I laugh at my own hysterical nonsense. My brain is getting delirious. Please, Mr. Reaper, spare me a couple more sane minutes to ponder over this dreadful end to every story I come to.
Who is it that prods me? Oh. I implore you to not touch me, my friend. My stained hands won’t budge, they will only become colder, and stiffer. I will let you weep, but do so not for me. Do not observe too long at what has become of my body; it doesn’t matter. Just remember me as I was, me, in your memories. Do not remember me like this, just this time, please don’t.
When my eyes speak something foreign, when those fingers release my eyelids, and when your hands let me go, confirming to the world of my death, I don’t see darkness. I don’t see light. They are wrong. I won’t die. I have, but I won’t.
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Time will repeat itself once, if not a thousand times, more. I will be born once again. Just let me rest for right now. Turn away, and let me have a moment. God is not calling me, no, he’s not, silly. Neither is Death. They are my only audience. Watch me! I dance so splendidly. I sing too. Don’t forget this! It will be the performance of my life. But, for now, don’t look at me like that. What have you got to fear?