rested on his deathbed, but only sleeping, like every night. Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was asleep or just silent. The time had done well and especially their disease. Just a few years previously he had been all his life a free man, who saw life as it wanted and did what I could. Despite his illness slowly consumed him, but at a rapid pace, sure and steady.
Once you knew what he had there was no turning back. There are ailments that rob one moments of comfort, some pain in the stomach, a temporary inability to breathe well, a headache. But the disease had him sentenced to irreversible blindness. It was already impossible to reverse the car of your discomfort. Sometimes I just get sick of death, and there is nothing else to do but to put the engine at idle and wait for the inevitable destination. But there is no doubt that in the ways of death is not frequent stops.
first thing he lost were his kidneys, then the view and by some miracle of life not lost his sanity. Before anyone saw it, lights then finally only shadows. Hope used as an excuse for not accepting his condition. He wanted to believe he was guilty of having engaged in the dark journey of the disease itself, but it was not him, it was not his fault. It was because of his blood, the blood of his father and the father of his father. It was inevitable.
One tends to believe that life is planned, but I really do not. You can mount a play of his life, arranged in scenes and direct, but no longer a farce, a self-representation and not true. You think you live, will face obstacles in their lives and eventually die of shock or its deathbed.
Ever thought about your last words?
Probably he had done, when you're sick and you die slowly at least you have time to think about death. Angel could have the word lists, but the timing was unexpected inevitable.
"Mom, I'm drowning." Were his last words before never to open their eyes and to see shadows.
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