He thought it was ironic that the bed where he dies is white, even though death is the absence of life, the absence of light.
He felt it would be unfortunate to not be awaken by sunlight anymore, to not hear the irregular sounds of rainfall, to not feel the warmth of fire in a cold night, and he wondered if he should expect something, if he should think that he would come to be again. It seemed possible, and many things seem possible.
He wished he did not have to wait. He wished that he did not have to show to himself and everyone else that he has accepted it. He wished that he did not have to say and hear the same phrases as if repetition made them any truer. It felt very compulsory, more compulsory than death itself.
He saw in the mirror his history. Every scar a story, and every wrinkle a condensation of lively years. Yet, he couldn’t feel satisfied despite his great attempts. He would have fought for one more second of living. He had “why’s”, “but’s”, and pleads, but he eventually reached a state of calm helplessness. To whom does he plead and by what right should he live one more second?
He thought of how many people have died since the beginning of time. He further thought of people that have died just that day. He tried to accept that his death is just something that happens all the time and has happened all the time. Wasn’t his whole life repetitive? How many people before him lay on their beds awaiting death and thinking? Every word that he has spoken, every thought, every action, every thing: haven’t they all existed before him in order for him to use them? How silly, he thought, would it be to say that any of his life has never been lived by any other human.
He leaned to a decoration plant adjacent to his bed, pulled it from its roots, and put it next to him on his white bed: “if I can’t live anymore, why should you?”