When I lie in bed at night and all that I have yet to do and understand threatens to assail me, I often try to visualise my death. Though it’s not actually my death but the days, or possibly weeks, before. I see myself lying, immobile by then and content to be so. Waiting. Waiting to be taken. I am clean, washed through, emptied of rancour and regret. Patient. More patient than I have ever been in life. And content. That too. Yielding. I am waiting to yield. The room that I am lying in is white. There is no clutter, no stuff, no things. Or people. Just me. An open white and a white muslin curtain blowing in the gentle breeze that is coming through the open window. It must be open so that my soul can fly.
