Letters to Death

Dates, Details, Doors and Death

Dear Death,

So you still do not want me to step over the threshold? This I hate you for. I was so close to you last night, and you rejected me as you have rejected so many others. Cast me out onto the lonely side street of agony. Left me to suffer indefinitely while your enemy decides how to handle such a person. But you claim them eventually. Right?

At least, I hope you do. I cannot wait any longer. Maybe we shall cross paths tonight. Maybe our eyes will meet, yours older than time itself and mine supposedly full of youth that I don't want, and maybe you will turn me away again. Would you do such a thing, or would you be merciful and take me away as I have always wanted you to?

One thing I noted was that you did not open the door enough for me to see you. An inch at most, my elusive acquaintance, but perhaps seven inches short. Your appearance mystifies me, you see. I have heard of a light, a bright glow in the darkness that engulfs us all. I have heard of the angel's partner, who cheats with the devil and who waits on the border between heaven and hell. I have also heard of the stereotypical Grim Reaperesque mien, the one who, as I stated in the previous letter, wears a cloak of black and holds a scythe.

I find myself pondering the details of your appearance. Your height, weight, whether your nose exists or if your head is a skull - but of course, you must get the point. My brainpower (not that I think there is much, but my peers will tell you otherwise) is so often wasted on such trivial things as the visage of a figurative and metaphorical being that has haunted human life since they discovered it. And yet I do not try to stop, Death, and I simply don't know why.

On that note, I don't know a lot of things. For instance: why is our world so lost in a sea of material prosperity? What is the meaning of life? Is time really a concept of human perception? And why, Death, did you open the door and let me in last night?

Of course, there are much more pressing questions than those, but I am a naive, confused and hormonal teenage girl who knows no better. Okay, maybe I do and maybe I am just very reluctant to act.

But still I wonder the precise date on which I am scheduled to meet you. I have plans, too. Next Friday. Open the door this time for me, will you?

Yours rather bitterly,

The same correspondent as last time