I long not for demise, but for the process leading up to it.

I long not for the end of the tale, but for those final few pages.

I long not for my final sleep, but to be laid in that one last resting bed, knowing that the long war finally comes to an end.

I long for that surrender, as my grip loosens, but has not fully let go.

I long to no longer tread water, but to let that river take me, to at last enjoy the feeling of being suspended and floating weightlessly —

I long to not need to fight to breathe, to experience what life might be like without a constant struggle.

And, in those final moments before I am finally taken, I may, at last, taste that.

In death, all answers are revealed, yes — but I think I might be able to hear those whisperings when my ear is pressed against that door, getting as close as I can be to it, without opening it and departing for good. To hear the conversations taking place behind that feared gate, while still being on our side of the threshold…

So, no, I do not long for demise.

I long for peace. I long for surrender. I long to know a life that isn’t a constant fight — and a meaningless one, at that.

I long for that in-between, where life and death might get so close to one another as to kiss, to synergistically compound the beauty of the other, and to give birth to a child that I might call “truth.”

Why do I taste this feeling as I approach the end of a book my heart has been engrossed in? Why do I taste this feeling as I approach the infinite other mini-deaths-not-deaths that exist elsewhere within the chapter book of my life?

Please, oh please, I just long for surrender, and I long for the truths she gives birth to.

Please. Please, please give it to me.