Death is a beautiful thing.

No, sorry. You'll have to forgive me. My memory doesn't work as well as it used to. My mind, too. They get things muxed ip, as my mum used to say. Or my brother... No... my mum. Definitely... Anyway, I can sometimes look at a pen and know it's a pen, but my brain and mouth have had a falling out so I call it a penguin, or nothing at all.

As such, I think back on my life and I wonder if it all really happened. If it did, was it in the order I think it was? I don't know whether that's my age or my imagination or the degradation pf my cerebral cortex. It could be each of them, to varying degrees. Or, it could all be in exactly the right order, and all be true.

I don't mind, particularly, either way. True or not. Chronological or muxed ip. It's my life in my head and in my heart so, even if it's not quite accurate, does it matter? It's what I see as mine. Perhaps it is. Perhaps not.

So, death isn't a beautiful thing. It's shit. Ugly. It's disgusting and gruesome and depressing. It's the guillotine dropping on something that should be seen as a miracle. But, it's not. Too many see life as mundane. To others it's a right and they should get everything they deserve. Too few actually do.

How do I know this?

Well, I'm dying, for one. I've died before, for two. This will be my third death. It'll be the last, as it's the first time I'm actually old. There's no coming back from old. I know, I've tried. I was almost successful once, but in the end, old gets you.

The twat.

From my experience, there's no Grim Reaper visiting. He doesn't bring snacks that he slices with his scythe before severing your spirit from its mortal coils. I'd always wondered which coils they might be. Were they springs, propelling you forth into whatever came next? Or, where they the coils of a snake squeezing the life from you until there was nothing left to travel anywhere?

I prefer to be an optimist, so look to the latter. I'm tired of not just living, but existing. What need to I have of travelling onwards to love for eternity? That's a fucking long time. I'm done! What if I was reincarnated? Maybe I'd come back as a beautiful, colourful butterfly. Well, as pretty as that would be, and as amazing as flight would be, they live for a couple of weeks at most. That's it. Hardly worth it, is it? Sure, you bring ooohs and aaahs to the people who see you flutter by, but there's just as many who'd squish you. I could return as a dung beetle, rolling a ball of shit up a hill. I feel like I've already done that once or twice, so no thank you.

I'm old and I'm done. So, why am I talking to myself and revisiting my life? Because I think it's important. We should reflect on our years. We should debate with ourselves about what sort of mark we've made, if at all. It's not about whether we'll be fondly thought of. Give it 50 years and we'd barely be a photo on a sideboard. No, have we been worthy of the miracle, or were we a dung beetle's pile of poo?

Again, does it matter? Now I'm laid here in a reflective mood, I think yes. We should leave behind, if not a legacy, then an imprint. A positive one, otherwise, why bother? If our time here isn't recognised, then the breaths we've taken should have been given to another. Let them have a go. See if they can make a difference.

To themselves, of course. Who cares what others think? Well, that'll be pretty much everyone nowadays. We are answerable only to ourselves. We have to stare at our reflection in the mirror, whether physical or metaphorical. We have to look at ourselves straight in the eye. Have we been lucky? Well, have we, punk? Have we made the best we could? Did we do us proud?

Did I do me proud?

I think that's probably what all this waffle is about. I... I don't know. I need to before the time comes. I have to face me, and I am not sure if I will like what I see.

So, where to start? Considering my current predicament - tick tock and all that - I think we'll go back to the first time I died.