There’s a wee rumor going around that I am 90-Day Jane. Sorry. Not me. I’m not killing myself, and I’m certainly not going to kill myself before Pilcrow Lit Fest happens in May or before my second book comes out, though that might do wonders for sales.

I wonder sometimes what it feels like to die. I guess we all wonder that. Not physically, because that is circumstantial. I mean mentally. Intellectually. Emotionally. Where I’m sitting right this minute, I hear a guitar, and see snow out the window and it’s lovely and at this second, I’d guess death, a peaceful one anyway, might feel like a cross between the fade out in a movie and the fade out in fainting. But, that’s only if I sat here and died right this second and how almost lovely that might be to go out in a peaceful note.

But again, I have a lot to live for. I don’t want to die anytime soon.

I thought I was about to die once. That wreck I mention sometimes, the second before we all smashed together, “okay, this is it” was in my head, and it was almost a surrender and almost a fight, but neither really. And, I wonder about that. If I would have died right there in that impact, what would that feel like? Would it have been the crash-bam then fade out that happened and I just wouldn’t have woken up? Or, would there be a surge of something final, like in the final second you’re alive, everything in the world makes sense and you enjoy a split second on wisdom and then you’re dead? Who knows. Or maybe your brain steps in and saves you and gives you whatever final moment you expect.

I know I would be really disappointed to die at the moment and I can only think that if I were to die right now that my final moment would be one of regret. “Damnit,” I’d think, “I thought there was a lot ahead.”

So, I’m not killing myself. I’m not 90-Day Jane. I wonder what it feels like to die, but I’m not curious enough to go find out just yet.

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