This was the result of a weirdly disorientating exercise we did in Writing and the Practice of Literature the other day. We had to count, out loud, from a hundred down to zero as we wrote, trying to go with the flow. Trying to break through that distraction, that obstacle, and just see what words came to us; let the writing form and let the words flow through all the barriers that we had tried to erect in their path. So yup. Was interesting. And weird. And what I came out with was, as seems usual with me, but which I blame entirely upon the effect of numbers being counted down, slightly depressing. So apologies. Anyway, here it is:
This is the way we finish our lives, in an explosion of sound and colour and sight, gasping out our last breath and seeing everything. We find that everything becomes entirely clear to us in that one moment. It's the end and we are free. We are unencumbered by our worries and concerns, counting down to oblivion. Numbers. Nothing.