Wouldn't mind dying if dying was all,
Went one old song I liked, but I disagreed.
I'd always taken up with the reverse opinion
That it is what's before death that's terrible
Not the nothing coming after. I understood,
Nonetheless, the weird nausea of extinction
That came with contemplating the end
Of the contemplative too directly. Nights,
I often experienced some form of the dream
Of final certainty, of spinning over the edge
Of a cliff, of hurtling headfirst at a tree,
Of someone firing a gun at me. The key
Part of every variation was that moment
In the dream when I knew for certain I was
About to die, that sickening, vertiginous
Oh-well-too-late-now as the gun fired
Or the car rolled or the ground rushed at me.
Every time, the remainder of the dream
Consisted of waiting not to be, and always
I clung to awareness in perfect expectation
Of death, trying to extend thought beyond
The end of thinking. I never woke as I died,
But as I gradually realized I wasn't dead yet.
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