Death Fantasies

I often imagine my death.  Something tragic, like a movie playing out, or a great story. Sometimes it happens while I’m in the shower.  I leave the door open - as I often do - and a dark stranger, or maybe an angry ex-boyfriend creeps into my home, quietly.  They kill me with a knife; death by shower scene, classic Hitchcock.  Or perhaps I am shot?  Do they use my own machete that sits close by where I sleep, or perhaps the baseball bat in the corner?  That would be gruesome and mildly ironic. 

Other times it happens in the car.  I’m t-boned by a drunk driver, smashed into nothingness, into breathlessness.  It is never my own doing, exactly, that brings about my doom.  Though it would seem, as I sit at the same job, in the same uneventful life, afraid to move forward, that I am indeed the responsible party.  Could my morbid fascination with hypothetical death fantasies be nothing more than a subconscious fear?  A fear that has gone for so long unaddressed as I sit in wait for the future that is to come?  And while waiting, I miss out on what could be; I sit idly in my discontent.  Though I know I am not alone in this waiting game, it still sucks, and the loneliness of it gnaws away at my being.

People that are deemed as the ‘greats’ of the world, do you think they felt the same longing?  Do you think they wondered when life would ‘happen’ to them?  The intermittent transformations that slowly evolve us into something new and hopefully better.  I wonder if they noticed these, or were they always just ‘great’, happy and content with their life situation.  This could easily lead to a rambling about the meaning of humanity, so I'll just stop there.  Happy hump day.

~HB

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