Never have I thought I’d be this scared to speak. I knew I wasn’t being me. I could not resonate the sentiments through my cords, unsettling and dreadful. This world won’t take it from me.
So i took it all on an ink.
Cliche as it may sound, but no man is indeed an island. There was an old woman in Australia who wanted to die with dignity. Her neighbours would talk to her over the fence every so often, creating a small talk that would discuss about what she has to say about life, resulting to her being branded as the “philosophical lady next door.”
Her husband died in 2001. Having no children, she was left alone in their house that could be a 1970’s time capsule. Everything in their house was left untouched. The first box television with antennas, the disconnected rotary dial, expired medicare, aged books, the vintage furnitures and the six month old bottled milk sitting on her fridge.
Everyone she knew have already died. Her family, friends, her husband. And she lived long enough to witness each one of their deaths.
“These impressions, after a long life of nearly 90 years are my own. right or wrong, are real and lived through. My ten fingers don’t need any support to hold a pen, and neither does my mind need any stimulants to express itself. A last pleasure of a lonely life.”
She died alone. Found after six months. Rotting alone in her antic furnitures, thousands of times after a fly had laid its maggots to consume her flesh before she was even mourned.
“I am wondering if old age is a blessing or a curse, or a purgatory…….In the end, death comes as a blessing, but no one sees it that way.”
I wanted to say I do.
She did not die with dignity. Her seat’s fallen and her scalp detached from her body. There lies a woman who spent the last bits of her life lonely, but having a brilliant mind does not grow scorn.
The carline had her journal. Her companion to her utterly lonely life. This would’ve sound hyperbolised, I must admit. But I am feeling the very same thing. I am with people, I talk to them, but i still feel terribly lonely.
And so I keep a journal. A thousand pages of poorly written daybooks of living with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts and sometimes happiness. The window of my soul that could possibly be forgotten in the next few years.