P.S.Clinen

A strange thing, to write a will. An inherent acceptance of mortality; a signing off one’s allotted portion of time. Life is dark, when you consider it, flanked at either end by black curtains – at birth and death – and one can do no more than stagger forward blindly with a candle flame that illuminates only as far as faith commands. I have turned to thinking perhaps a little too deeply on things, I cannot help myself. I relate to a strange series of events happened long ago…. My friend has just died. Spare no consolations for me; we fell from communications long ago, and he has died of admirable age. I know all too well the pangs of grief, having lost – like many – peoples of whom my life has been so deeply rooted. No, I feel I won’t cry for the man, at least not yet, but a peculiar circumstance surrounding his demise has tickled a rather macabre fancy in my oft drifting mind; a sort of sinister darkness of memory I had not recalled since my youth. At my age the mind starts to play tricks; happenings that once seemed so real I must now remind myself of their tangibility, whilst reminding myself that other monsters are just dreams. But no, the events of this tale are true – of that I pledge with utmost surety.

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