by OWAIN GLYN EVANS
No one has time to reflect on their own death. There is no hindsight, no regret, no pain when you’re dead and gone. There’s barely anything to reflect on when you’re alive too: knowing nothing means nothing to think about. All you can do is feel your heart beat, your lungs heave, and your skin ripple with life.
And then you don’t. You die. This is all you can think. This is all you can consider in the moments before you die. You’ve fallen to the floor and you’ve been kicked and punched. You ache of life. You radiate it. Life is tearing you apart. You feel life pulsate and drum through you in your pain, in your numbness. But you think because you can. You think because you live. You appreciate it.
But then the bat comes down and hits you on the head.