(I don’t know what this is. An open letter? To whom?)
Is it too strange to say that I think of death rather frequently? The shadow in the back of my mind, that which haunts subtly and silently. It is there, waiting always, to catch me unguarded. Perhaps, all of these thoughts is too much for my own good, but this is how life, or death, goes: ever present even without my notice.
There are people I know who used to be, they who once were but no longer are, and I should have missed them before they were to be missed. I was blind to the signs of our fraying bonds, our weakening ties. I was blind to the few precious chances I was given to tell you all how much I valued you. So very much. I apologize, but I know that I am too late, and it is already lost to wherever these broken things go. This taste of regret becomes less and less foreign for me.
Will the end come for me just as suddenly? These lives cut too short, the unexpected final breaths, a seed of despair secretly nurtured into fruition. It happened and happens all too fast.
All too often, all too soon, life ends, and here, I am left behind to contemplate, observe, and mourn another new emptiness.