Alone and Awesome

Being single, silly, and secure

Life and Death

Hello, my wonderful peoples!

It is an amazingly warm day today for being February. I am happy you took time for me, (even if you’re reading this some time in the future and it is no longer warm. If that is the case, I’m not looking forward to the near future).

It’s been running through my mind a lot today. I am sure you have heard of those people who can predict their deaths. I once knew a woman who predicted how she would die and that was precisely what happened to her. My thoughts on this topic came up while I was washing my face in the mirror. I scrubbed the soap from my eyes and looked at myself. A frown came to my face. I was skeptical of the subject, though I believe anything is possible. It bothered me because I did not think anyone should be able to, or even want to, predict their death. However, the topic did not leave my mind.

Why would you predict your death?

Well, today I want to tell a story to make my point and get down into my thoughts. I hope you’ll enjoy.

Let’s say this white stick in my hand is alive. It has arms and legs and now you can see this white stick sitting upright in my hand and its small black eyes are glaring at me because I decided it would be a stick of all things. This stick is also angry at me because I did not make it a human. The reason for this is because I do not want my thoughts to be tied to an actual human by accident. Am I overreacting? No. Maybe. I don’t think so. I treasure human life and if I used a guy named Bob for my example then any man named Bob who reads this will might possibly feel as if I am, to some crazy extent, predicting his death and I do not want this.

So I’m using a white stick that does not exist.

I shall name him…

Stick.

Now, let us begin the journey of Stick.

Stick had an average childhood. He grew up on the arm of his mother surrounded by all his siblings. It was a nice life. Waving in the wind and spitting out leaves every summer. He was still small when a raging thunderstorm passed over. He was separated from his family and fell to the earth where he lay in the tall grass for days.

It was a warm February day when a young lady picked him up and gave him arms and legs. Stick suddenly became a living being through this woman’s imagination and began to live like any living stick would. But Stick could not stop thinking about the future. The odd events that led to him acquiring life troubled him and he began to wonder how he would die. Would he be chopped up into firewood? Would his house catch on fire? Would he, maybe, be devoured by flames?

Hey, a stick doesn’t have many fears.

Stick became so memorized by the topic that he decided he would write down how he would die. He took a pen and wrote on the skin of his ancestors how he thought he would die. On the parchment he wrote that when he was advanced in years he would be flung at a wall by a young teen and shatter in half. Thus ending his life.

“This is how I will die,” Stick told his friends and the woman who gave him life. The people were impressed, but also a little concerned. None believed his prediction and the woman that had found him years ago sat down beside him and took his prediction from his tiny hands to read it for herself.

“What if you predicted your life instead?” She asked gently, folding the paper as she spoke. Her expression was sorrowful.

“Predict my life?” Stick inquired. “But life just happens.”

“Not exactly,” replied the woman. “How easy is it to say ‘This is how I will die,’ in comparison to saying ‘This is how I will live’? Anyone can select death. Death by a car accident. Death by a fire. Death by their own hand. The thing is that death can be predictable. It can be controlled. You and I, Stick, can sit here and write out hundreds of ways we could die and give it details down to the second the teen picks you up and with how much force he hurls you at the wall. If the right people, or perhaps the wrong people, hear of your plan they can take measures to make sure your death happens precisely how you predicted. Like how bank robbers study and plan before they make their move, so you could also study and plan how you will die. Not only that, but if you decide how to die you will subconsciously move towards that death on your own. Death is certain and much more predictable than life. Do you see?”

Stick was shocked. He had not thought of it that way. “But what did you mean about predicting your life?” He asked.

“Predicting your life takes more effort,” replied the woman. “And is nearly impossible. For example; you can say to yourself, ‘I will dedicate my life to making ice cream and creating new flavors,’ and for a while that may work. But then you could run out of money and your store is closed, or you develop an allergy to the ice cream and can no longer work with it. Life comes at you from all angles. People enter your life and people leave your life, and events occur that you could never foresee. Life is unpredictable, at least that is how I see it. Predicting your death is limiting your life. Giving yourself a time limit is dangerous because in this world things might actually go as planned. Belief is a powerful tool and you should not use it lightly. Wouldn’t you rather say ‘I will live’ instead of ‘I will die’?”

Stick looked at the folded paper in the woman’s hands. He had no response. He had been consumed thinking about his death that he had not had time to think of life.

“These are just my thoughts,” said the woman, handing him back his prediction. “Thoughts from someone who does not trust a world that can bring the impossible to life in fabricated ways. I also do not like the subject of death being thrown about so easily. Do not entertain it. Life should be your focus, Stick.” She stood and left without another word.

However, what she had said remained with Stick long into the night, then through the next day, and into the week. He tore up his prediction and began his plans of how he would live.

Stick opened an orphanage for all the fallen twigs that experiences storms as he had. He lived a fulfilling life and when he reached the ripe old age of 120 he passed away in his sleep and became a piece of moldy white wood. But on his bark were inscribed these words:

“I lived.”

E. L.

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