James shook the double rimmed spectacles, gazed through the upper hemisphere, sternly, without a hint of doubt, started, stared, gaped, he could not believe it, removed his spectacles, shaded his eyes with the back of his hands, shoulders hunched, his loosened hands dropped spectacles on to the dark starchy rug on the ground, his attention slacked, senses drooped, his rustic and withered harmonious body twitched, trembled, for a brief pulsating moment, he memorized in his dying memories that he, James was dying, the moment has now come, the moment of elation.
Conscience withdrawn, light turned off, end of a life as I knew it, for what is conscience but a blot of ink on the large canvas of death. A blot attracts a bee that sits on it momentarily, offers in return, a precocious and naive imaginative abilities, and that are we, and we are that, that momentary objects of precarious and inevitable abysmal choices. then the bee leaves, discarded, the blots are now left, less of emotive gradient, cease to imagine, cease to exist, cease to live, as I know it, and I die, to join the limitless background of death, embellishing it, with my blot, inconsequential, for my embroidering is but one in a pool of infinite eventuality.
James wit fully resigned to the life as he knew it, and now he was going to die, gracefully, tenderly. He coughed, puffed noisily, exhaled, slackened his muscles, readied himself, propped his back on one of the legs of the chair, sat with his back against it, and coughed incessantly spitting phlegm from the deepest of his lungs, through his nose. He bled almost promptly adjudicated, profusely decorated his person, for what would be remembered as his dead body by those near and dear to him, quite a statuesque effeminate figurine sprouting blood, phlegm, ticking torturously, paunch pulsating vigorously, bloody smeared face, facade of mighty repulsiveness, he would make it, yes, and his untruly living embodiment of life, as it is known, sincerely regretted, ceased to be him, he ceased his conscience, or was it the other way?
Footsteps, or was it feet stoops, I heard, gingerly, straight jacketed limbs approached solemnly, grieving, burying, purposefully mourning, dejection raising above the corridors of uncertainty, they deplored the inimitable countenance at stake, he smoothed his palms, rubbed against each other for warmth, she tugged on to him closely, rested her head on his shoulders, still staring, without blinking an eye at the corpse, stroked his chin, he pulled her close to him, wrapped his hands around her, kissed her, she perspired, he dried her forehead with his naked palms, she kissed the back of his palm. I am watching, contemplating, the design works beautifully, the dramatic intervention strikes at the eleventh hour, unprecedented, and the conscience is withdrawn, blankness, but, I knew it, I readied myself to become the 'one' -'death', to live in death, painfully I declared resentment in those 'in-situ' stages of conscience, but I learnt later, realization horrified me at first, then I realized, for there was no realization, but the 'knowing' or 'not knowing' it. 'It', the death, yes, and I knew it.
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