The fiery sun sets in the distance, as I sit and let my mind wander aimlessly. Nothing positive or negative in general. I just sit and think about myself and the things I wish to do.
I lay in my warm bed and my room lays in half naked darkness, moonlight filters through my red and golden lace curtains and falls across my room beautifying everything it crosses in its path. One particularly bright shaft of silver smoke falls on my wrist, and I gently sit up. As if the wisp of silvery light is drawing me to that sheet of yellow coarse handmade parchment.
My thoughts flow endlessly and a surprisingly cold wing brushes past leaving goose bumps on my neck, the same way, as when he had brushed his lips against me and whispered in my ears almost a millennia ago.
His words ring out in my ears as if he was standing behind me.
“Somedays you’re going to feel as if you are an ever expanding galaxy of complexities with blinding burning stars for eyes and black holes for a heart. And somedays you’re going to think of yourself as nothing but a tiny insignificant speck in this giant chaotic universe, capable of nothing. But remember one thing, every day you wake up is a new day, and another small yet colossal step close to the fringes of death.
If you do things your way, the last days are going to be brilliantly the best. You can walk right up, shake the hands of the angel of death, stand on the fringes of an old life, ready to dive down into a new one.
Don’t let yourself get you down.
And ask yourself every night before you lay yourself to rest that if you were to kiss death tomorrow would you be proud of the life you’ve lived?
Make it not just a life. Make it a legacy. I’ll be waiting for you on the fringes of death. On the threshold of new life. I’ll be waiting, love.”
I open my eyes and see these words on the sheet as if I’d written these words in a trance. Warm blood gushes through my veins and I can feel every rhythmic heartbeat. I smile to myself.
I know he’ll be waiting. I can feel it in my bones. Waiting to read my legacy.
Waiting on the fringes of death.
– Shabnam Mondal