Breathe

By: Pat Adams

I can't breathe. It feels like there is no air left, and I can't bring anything into my lungs. I claw at my face, hoping that something is covering my mouth and nose. My vision is beginning to narrow, constricting to a tunnel. I rip my collar, struggling to get something in, gulping nothing, gasping and grasping for life. It's getting so cold, so cold. In the icy void, I know I'm doomed. But the terror is residing. A quiet calm is overtaking me as my heart slows to a halt. My mind is foggy, yet surprisingly clear. There is a meaning to it all, what does the meaning really matter since I'll be dust so soon? Would the meaning anything if I had my full life ahead of me? I doubt it would alter the course I have chosen for myself. No, it wouldn't. The meaning of life we chose to believe in is a product of our path as well as its cause. So my final struggle as I die is to smile. My meaning has been fulfilled, my destiny is done, and my chapter of history has come to a close. I am who I became, and I became what I was intended in the greater plan to be.

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