Isn’t it fitting that the last words that you wanted to be profound, couldn’t really be found at all? That they were bits and pieces of something potentially meaningful flitting about your brain, just out of reach. So you just jot down what you get, in bits and pieces, as they come. Wishing that they still will make sense to someone. Hoping that they will be read. Not because they are unforgettable or original in any way, but because you seek the communication, the exchange of thoughts and you’ve had the pleasure of it before. But the time is running out.
Isn’t it fitting, as well, that your last image is of what is considered a busy intersection in your sleepy little town, instead of a more interesting picture from somewhere else in the world, you know those places you once visited that were just filled with stories and adventures, that you could tell people about all your life? But you’re out of time, so you pick the first decent picture you find because of its uncharacteristically dramatic sunset. And it could be from any one of these days on your road from work, it could be any one of those days, because they just seem to blend together, that you suddenly saw something quite beautiful, so you stopped for a few paces, and snapped that picture.
Can you hear it?
I won't say goodbye
From this place
Times like these