Diary of a Dead Man

1

~ R i c h a r d ~

I always wandered what'll death would feel like. The experience where my soul gets lathered, being driven remorselessly from my body and getting sent into another realm beyond my imagination. A spectral, unsubstantial shadow of myself. Flitting a-shivering out into the black-wombed darkness, and fumbling with filmy hands that it might clasp the closer around. Questioning the unknown which lies beyond and the inhabitants that reside within. Nevertheless, it's aweful loneliness.
This thought, I must confess, fills me at all times with an abhorrent loathing and dread.

The dread to be reborn a second time with the ability to tale my story—my experience with death.

Although atrophylosphists myths claim that mankind had a past-life before their very own, I believe in that case, that I didn't get enough of mine. For I am a man who seeks death and vitality at one cause—Acheiving Immortality.

I am a gutsy hamlet young man who grew up to the hands of a bookshop owner. That explains my thrilling imagination. Growing up, I read too many books, all types and genres, too complex for a child to fathom. Yet it gave me leverage to look at the world from a different perspective.

Unlike other children, I had a unique contraceptive into what I wanted to achieve through life. That's what my father described me with—unique. Not my biological father, though. He claimed I being dropped by his doorstep a unique moment. My intentions and actions were peculiar as he worded. He complimented my knowledge, believing I could lead to something great. Extreme. And wonderful.

Right then, I wanted my own story. My own novel. For people to read me and admire me. I wanted a blank paper and ink, all it took me to begin my journey. I just lacked one thing—and it is experience.

That's why I decided to flee the world. Starting with my village, more like a hamlet. Inhabitants here are like family, too close and too familiar to each other. Almost making me question their bloodline. Generosity is their second priority after family. Yet they characterize boldness as their mutual nemesis.

And as I ascended in age, my ambitions rose higher, and my dreams grew bigger by each passing day. The urge to reach my goal and prove my theories empowered me everyday. I wanted it. I needed it.

I couldn't control the desire to become famous. One with prestige and spoken reputation. Though, my father's warnings rang in my head—‟happiness isn't found in seeking morals, but in developing the capacity to enjoy less.”

Indeed, was he right. But my need to succeed was bigger, and yet he questioned everytime I brought up the topic—how come seeking your demise contemplates with success?!—he had a point. I wanted a trial with death in order to tale my experience with the afterlife mankind be imagining. Something that'll carry a moral for ages. Carry my name around it.

My father and I sat at the dinner table chatting about our whereabouts, alike each day. He insisted that in my age—20—I start searching for jobs around the village. Not listing the city as an option as I had concluded, for he despises civilians and characterizes them as people of bad habits.

I, on the other hand, relished exploring those habits. I wanted to know more. I needed more.

Then my dad had to bring my hopes down, ‟I lived with those ingrates for 2 years,  richard,  and couldn't stand a day there. ” Again, he begins to re-tale his story and for the umpteenth time describing how badly they treated him.  ‟They tricked me and stole my money, can you believe that?! ” I shook my head, pretending I care to settle down his ire,  knowing he'll bring up the whole ordeal detailed story.