A Good Death

* What's your name?

*You are silent. I was just trying to see your eyes when you say it. You know I know your name.

-Why?

*Now, that you know that you have always known it. Why the question?

-Questioning is life.

*Or death.

-Well, I think my answer is fear.

*You know it's an illusion.

-But, time!

*That is real.

-Yes! You know! Sometimes I feel like I am a visitor from the future, who, by mere accident, lost the memory of his home; and is trying, by seeking traces of civilization, to recreate it. Even that last thought is dead.

*A good death.

-How?

*Listen, Fear and Time are your enemies, and you mustn't allow an enemy to see your eyes without a sense of intimidation.

-That also is an illusion.

*Try to understand! Everyone is committed to illusions. But, only the ones who make their own, can become real.

-But, not true!

*Maybe! Maybe your home is.

I still remember, the day we met. The school, kids, and the soccer ball. I can see him there, as true as I thought he would be. In his mind, I can see a drifted mind. Wait! I can see his fear. As a long standing snow flake waiting to melt in early-spring, he was waiting. Silent, in a time where language had only one word. Unlike truth, she said, Ideas can be created and killed in our minds. I painted a school, kids, a soccer ball, and a crown. I painted a road, I walked. I painted rocks, snakes, and a clever young boy. Stumbled, beaten by a toy!

Unlike Ideas, she said, with me, you can only hope for a good dance. I still remember, I still do, Hope! Il y'a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais, je ne t'oublierai.

A weakness that can not find a cure. Illusion de ne pouvior jamais oublier cette allure. In pursuit of a mind that remains pure. I missed sunlight, for then, I was insecure.

I hold myself guilty of letting guilt crawl into my thoughts and hide your persisting beautiful image. At those few moments when I beat my fear, I see you in those first red rays of the sun at dawn, in the raging waves of a deep blue sea. In that hopeful and sharp look of a child, in that only place where I can see an unquestionable truth. I see you in my mind, gazing at me, with that all-secure, from-all protecting look. If I ever close my mind in fear again, rest your eyes in mine, so that it opens.

Note: Some of the sentences are highly affected by already published books. In particular, *Invitation to a Beheading* by Vladimir Nabokov, and *1984* by George Orewell.