I sort of picture my death being extremely dramatic, I suppose I'm just one of those weird people who doesn't want to die of old age. The dark outline of Death will greet me perhaps standing on a rain-forest cliff, or at the site of a helicopter crash that only he will recover the people from for weeks, until it is reported and eventually discovered. Death will look at me with those wide, empty, white eyes that Thanatos used to have when I was a child, and used to be first my enemy, but upon further understanding of his back-story, became my friend.
And he'll say, "I still watched and waited for you all those years...how did I know I wouldn't find you in a peaceful hospital bed, or in your own, surrounded by the children and the grandchildren you never had?"
And I'll just smile, shrug, and say, "You know me. I'm the girl who's just different."
I might even consider apologising to him for being so selfish. For giving up on him, and everyone else that only I could see at such a young age when I had foolishly promised, that I'd always keep them in the back of my head. But he'll just shake his head, and ponder on the strangeness that he never fully realised that I possesed, that he didn't lift my frail body as the heart-monitor hummed monotonously, like he had for so many others. He'll remember that that's so incredibly unlike me. That he was destined to find me in a secluded but beautifully harsh landscape where only the bravest of the brave, the thrill-seekers, the life lovers, and the insane ventured.
What category should I fall into? My long-lost friend would find it easy to draw conclusions.
I sang to fill the world at some point, maybe did an album, mostly for my own pleasure, and to open up the eyes of the world. I finally finished one of the many novels that I really should have gotten to earlier, the ones that had the same purpose as the music. I painted the walls, smeared them with the essence of my being, and the result was abstract, and strange, and beautiful like I dreamed it would be.
And then I lived. I lived, and lived, and kept living until it killed me.
And my good friend, Death, inscribed the words with his long, bony fingers onto my tombstone--Cause of death: Living. Death understood living better than anyone I knew, because he understood me.