I'm here, I said, and it felt shockingly comforting, those words. When I'm in an utter state of panic, I say them aloud to myself. I'm here. Because I don't usually feel that I am. Almost seems like a warm gust of wind could exhale my way and I'd be gone forever, not even a sliver of fingernail left behind. On some days, I find this thought calming; on others it chills me.
He is here. And he comes to you, and he does not speak, and the others do not notice him, and he takes your hand, and you ready yourself to die, eyes open, aware that this is all an illusion, a last aroma cast up by the chemical stew that is your brain, which will soon cease to function, and there will be nothing, and you are ready, ready to die well, ready to die like a man, like a human, for despite all else you have loved, you have loved your father and your mother and your brother and your lover, and you have loved everyone in your fantasises, you have loved beyond yourself, and so you have courage, and you have dignity, and you have calmness in the face of terror, so that he may confront the end. Confront it a little less afraid.
