A story brought about by my own – health related - reflections on a matter, both delicate, and universal. It is a personal meditation intended to help teach myself an important lesson I need to learn. Perhaps others do too. It is in that light that I share it.

I have recorded my first book reading / spoken word for my blog here at Steemit. The new dsound platform has made that an ideal proposition, once I overcame my reluctance to put myself out their too much. I stumbled a couple of times, but mostly it is true to what I have written, and think it is ideal for those who prefer audio books. Let me know what you think (but be gentle!).

Lessons Learned From a Dying Man

► Listen on DSound

► Listen from source (IPFS)

I never meant to stare. It was not my intention to make him feel uncomfortable. But my gaze was transfixed by his very appearance. The sight of him bewildered me. His skin so pale, like a Cicada's wings, with veins that crisscrossed at irregular intervals. He was skinny, perhaps too skinny. Bones protruding, like they had lost their security and were huddling together to defend themselves from an unknown threat. Or was it unknown? Perhaps the threat had revealed itself already. And taken its toll. It certainly appeared that way.

I caught myself looking. Or maybe I caught him watching me looking. That may be closer to the truth. But he didn't seem upset. Perhaps he is resigned to the stares that he has to deal with. He coughed; a jagged razors edge of sound escaping from its hidden world. It made him wheeze, as finally he breathed deeply, as deeply as he could.

He was no stranger. No, I knew this man well. It was bad enough that I had been caught staring at a dying man whom I had known for what could have been a lifetime. But I couldn't imagine my shame should he had been a stranger. We sat silently with each other, offering our silences as gifts of formless treasure. Finally he spoke.

"Does it bother you?"

"Does what bother me?" I asked, speaking cautiously, as if the vibration of my speech had the ability to damage his already withered frame.

"The sight of me," he said, getting straight to the heart of the matter. I considered carefully his calmness of speech. His demeanour reached out and soothed my own apprehension. But I wasn't even the one who was dying. What was my excuse for fear?

"A little, yes." Should I be so honest? How dare I speak in ways that could crush this man. But he had reached out and reassured me with his long silent pauses, and his visual clues. He wanted honesty. Even more so than I did. I suppose a dying man has no need for running from the truth any longer. Those days would be far behind him. The lies we tell, and the games we play. My own guilt sat heavily upon me. My own betrayals crept up to the surface of my memories. I could feel the creeping emergence of guilt, grief, and hopelessness bubble up to greet me. I suppressed my tears. My friend was dying, and I was concerning myself with my own hidden past? Is this what happens in the face of death? Or is it the face of truth that has me now? Maybe there should be a sign above his door that reads Abandon all games those who enter here.

"Don't worry yourself about it," he said. "It's only natural to feel uneasy." He spoke with the calmness of a saint. An enlightened soul. Although he looked anything but that. He hardly had the strength to support his own frame. He winced and wheezed regularly. He had trouble breathing.

But he was at peace. He emanated a level of peace which was so palpable it frightened me. Why would peace be such a threat to me? Because I have none of my own? A man who is living, and breathing, and has – god willing – many days ahead of him, and I am cowering under the penetrating light of a dying man's peace and contentment. It isn't right. I'm not right.

"I'm resigned to my fate. Finally," he said. "It has taken me so long, but the fight went out of me a long time ago. And that's when life became, well, different. It's like the constant fight I had with life brought nothing but darkness, but acceptance of reality has brought me light."

I weighed up what he was saying. He sounded genuine. I know he meant all that he was saying. "But should you have to die to experience such light? Such peace?"

"Of course not!" He spoke with a degree of emphaticness. As much as his demeanour would allow. "That's the point. That is what I didn't get. All that time whilst I had life, I lived it with too much resistance. Too much fear. Too much concern about what other people thought. Don't do that. Don't wait this long to live."

"What do you suggest?" I was asking a dying man's advice on how to live life. I bathed in the subtle light of my own ironic patheticness. I should be the one offering assistance.

"Live with purpose. Define your life. "

"And to hell with the consequences?" I asked, unsure if it was even the right question.

"No, to hell with the fear of the consequences. It's the fear that kills you. Eventually. I would go so far as to say that living in fear is akin to already being dead. Well, that's my take on it, from my own life."

"Whatever comes, don't be afraid. That's all. I don't think I have anything else." He didn't need to say any more. He had imparted more than enough. Enough to impinge. I suppose only a man who has come to know peace could cut through my defences so severely. Only a man resigned to his fate could speak with conviction. Conviction enough for me to hear. A conviction that was free of the binds of fear. I took in a slow deep breath. I felt my lungs fill and then the oxygen disperse throughout, as if my body was incorporating a newness of thought and awareness. Could I do such a thing? Could I live with purpose, and without fear? There was only one way to find out.

► Listen on DSound
► Listen from source (IPFS)

Previous post: NAQUOYA'S BOOK REVIEWS - The Girl Who Played With Fire - Steig Larsson

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you liked it then please like, comment, and follow.