Do you remember the day that do you feel you die?
I say that because I’ve seen everything I’ve ever needed to see, maybe I could make it more clear, but in the end, there’s nothing left. The feeling of having witnessed all that was essential, every experience, every moment, every twist and turn, has settled deep within me. Perhaps I could articulate it with more precision, weaving words together intricately to convey the depth of understanding, but ultimately, there remains nothing more to discover. The sense of completeness washes over me, like the tranquil waves of the ocean meeting the shore, bringing a serene sense of fulfillment. Everything seems to align, as if each piece of the puzzle has found its place, and there’s a profound tranquility in knowing that nothing essential evades me anymore.
I’m moving along the way now. I never wanted to compete with anyone, and this is my way from now on. As I journey forward, I embrace the path I’ve chosen, undeterred by the distractions of competition. My focus is on personal growth and self-improvement, as I navigate through life with determination and purpose. It’s a liberating feeling to set my own course, free from the constraints of comparison. This newfound independence allows me to flourish at my own pace, unrestricted by external pressures. I am confidently forging ahead, fully aligned with my authentic self.
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40 idee per riscattare il tuo sguardo fotografico. Un libro di Massimo Usai per chi vuole guardare il mondo con occhi nuovi.
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2 comments
It’s an intriguing question, as you know. I don’t know if this applies, but years ago I had what turned out to be a heart attack. At the time, I didn’t know what it was. I was in great pain and tried to wait it out, even sleep it out (it happened in the middle of the night). After some time, I realized the pain in fact was getting worse, so bad that I might not recover. I felt a kind of dying. And in that time a word came to me: relent. Life is ending, and that’s sad, but it must happen. It didn’t happen then, though someday, naturally, will. And maybe I’ll go to that same relenting. Thanks for your question and your own responding!
Thank you for sharing such a deeply personal and moving experience. The way you describe that moment—not just the physical pain, but the emotional surrender to the possibility of death—is incredibly powerful. The word “relent” feels both unexpected and profoundly right. There’s something humbling in that acceptance, in allowing life to take its course while remaining lucid and present in the face of something so immense.
It’s experiences like yours that remind us how fragile and extraordinary life really is. I’m grateful you took the time to share it. I hope you’re doing well now, and that the word relent—so gentle, so human—continues to offer meaning even beyond that night.
Thank you again.