I was here before.
At the time, thinking about coming to an end. This time, remembering and thinking about the same, but from a very different perspective. About not wanting to, about fear, about ifs and whys. With a guilty conscience, almost. Frightened conscience. Guilty for allowing myself to think about my end and try to come to terms with it. To accept the idea.
Not that I ever succeeded, in accepting the idea. Perhaps the attempt wasn’t even genuine to begin with, maybe it was just a thought that surfaced, pushed a few buttons and made a bit of a number of itself, and left without leaving much of a permanent trace. And certainly no conclusion, no accept.
One day, perhaps—one day..
The part about trace wasn’t quite honest.