When I died, I knew exactly what was happening.
As soon as my body hit the grass, my brain sent one last warning: it's over. There's nothing left to do. I'm going to die.
When it had used up all its adrenaline, it was time to watch my life flash before my eyes. It's funny how we think it's just hyperbolic expression. It's not.
In that moment, I remembered long-forgotten memories, glimpses of events, quick passages of all kinds of things I had done.
Dancing as a child at my grandmother's house to a Black Eyed Peas song. Running around in my elementary school on that concrete floor with little stones. Sitting on the floor at a party while someone played the guitar.
All the tears I had shed up until that moment, all the times I had suffered, seemed like a bad joke. So insignificant, so tiny compared to the rest of my life. Looking back, the bad moments in my life were mere blurs in a much larger painting; I was just too close to notice.
There was confusion in my heart. On the one hand, I felt despair. I would never be able to smile again. I would never be able to eat ice cream with my parents again. I would never be able to tell stories or create characters again. I would never be able to give all the love I had inside me — so, so much love.
Where would all that love go? Would it be wasted?
It was then that I felt fear. Where would not only my love go, but also my conscience? Would it really end there?
And I realized that I was an atheist.
If there really was a God, I probably wouldn’t be blessed. I was selfish, lustful, arrogant. I committed many sins, under the rule of many religions. Would it still be of any use if I started praying?
Guilt. Maybe I should have been religious. Not because I wanted to go to heaven or anything. Because dying is the loneliest experience we can go through, and I desperately wanted someone to be there for me. Someone to ask for help, who might listen to me. And who else, if not the omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent One?
There was no one else there.
Doubt.
So I prayed. It couldn't hurt, right?
Maybe there would be a miracle.
But God doesn't reserve his miracles for heretics.
Finally, I felt sadness.
This was how it would end. Just like that; without glory, without honor, without an interesting story. I would die like any other and my name would become a memory, which would then cease to exist.
There is no death worse than being forgotten.
Regret.
If only I had studied more. If only I had had a better job. If only I had been more charitable. If only I had been someone more memorable. If only I had had children.
Emptiness.
Either way, it was too late.
The blood was escaping from me along with every drop of hope a person could hold.
Someone asked me, "Are you ready?"
And with my last breath,
I felt love.
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