the story of my death

It was as if someone had reached out in front of me, out from the vast hullabaloo of nothingness all around me, had entered my intimate space and shattered the fragile bit of hope that lingered; as if a sudden single hand had reached out directly before me, grabbed my fleshy throat and choked all the breath of desire and comfort without my even knowing it; as if an earthquake had thrust the foundations of my innards open and swallowed all sense of passion that had burned within me. The powerful words emanated from his mouth, gliding on a straight and direct line of airy breath like the sharp arrow of death, blowing across my face and bombarding its way into my soul, casting a frozen chill over all that was once warm. The wisp grew large and at once became suffocating, like a tornado that with its forceful wisp swept away the warm love from my heart and left my soul chilled and naked, shamed and embarrassed. I had been robbed of these, my most precious possessions, and left bare and empty, I felt myself begin to shrivel up, like a dried fig, or an autumn leaf that had lost all its vibrancy and pigment to the harsh calling of the seasons. And there on the bustling street corner, I was dead.

There are moments in time that are defining moments, defining of character, of sentiment and of the future. The eras in one’s life are formed by these individual moments and these epochal eras string together to create the dramatic structure of the life of the individual. This moment was particular in the sense that it struck the end note of the epoch, the end note which essentially formed the very epoch itself; for it is only the end which creates and defines the beginning, creates and defines the set, and which is in that sense the single most defining moment of all.