suntlacrimae

I promise I haven't been thinking morbidly lately:

I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how I want to die:

I want to row out to sea.
I want to wade into the surf, climb into my shell, and hang my legs over the sides while I look squarely upon the land, up close, for the last time.

Then I want to pull the oars and enjoy the feeling as my back muscles tingle and warm up.

I'm sure I'll have "deep thoughts" as the land slips away and becomes smaller in my visual perspective.

As I row, I will appreciate the intricate physics and physiology involved, the mathematics that ensure that my oar glides scant millimeters above the water and the name of each muscle that burns.

When I am exhausted, I will lay back upon the keel and feel the burn of the sun or the cold light of the moon. I will repeat the process as necessary.

Somewhere, feet or miles from the shore of my departure, well, I guess I'll die.

Knowing me, though, I'll probably get run over by an ice cream truck.