Sing to Me, Songs of the Darkness

I keep thinking it. It will come to me when my thought has stilled and parted to leave my mind empty for a little.


The first and second time I turned it over and learned it's intentions and pondered it's nature.


I cannot say how many times, if many or few, it made itself know to me after that. All I can be sure of is that it has come to visit again.


This is the thought, clear and in the form it arrives to me in;


"I am going to die."


Not in the form of my body expiring. Not by my own will determining some aspect of existence unbearable. With such certainty it is impossible for it to be those. But by my own mind overwriting itself. I can't say that it will be any certain part of me, just the knowledge that I, what I am now, will die and instead someone else will take it's place.


It is hardly frightening nor sad, except in how inconsolably inevitable it feels.


It isn't clear how or what it will be like or when or to what extent or what form it will take when it happens. It is only that I am dying.