Chapter 1: The Art of Dying

Engaging with the notion of dying is something I find myself doing on occasion. Picture the cinematic moment where a character takes their final breath—a long, drawn-out exhalation, while someone who has come to care for them watches with a heavy heart. This is the kind of dying I contemplate, not the abrupt end that comes from violence, where emotions are overshadowed by chaos. If I had to choose, I'd prefer a dramatic explosion over a drawn-out farewell, but the challenge lies in practicing such an exit without actually experiencing it.

Instead, I begin with a deep breath while lying comfortably on a bed supported by strategically placed pillows, as if someone has thoughtfully arranged them for me. In this imagined scenario, that caring person is nearby, observing the gentle rise and fall of my chest, perhaps with a hint of wheezing—though I decide against it, as it might distract from the moment. I want them fully present, focused on the serenity of my passing.

The rise and fall of my breath evokes the calm of the ocean at dusk, where the once tumultuous waves have settled into a gentle