Do Not Be Afraid

When fever rises to 109, the gravity is lost: I cling to sheets to hold the bed’s horizon but my spine tends to a weightlessness. The fever heats the protein till the folding point and, they say, it’s the beginning of the... I can’t rhyme out of it any longer. It’s hard to write poetry when you’re floating on the ceiling. Or you think you are: since then, you can’t distinguish the real from the unreal. They call it “The Earth immerging into the Water”, the first stage when consciousness starts leaving physical levels one after another. According to people who was on my way, the Water is about to turn into the Fire. And it does: I still can inhale the white-hot air of my hospital room but the exhalation does not come easy and, finally, ends. The suffocation, the flash, the sparks dying away in the dark. It's a little painful but pain will pass when the Air absorbs the Fire like a blotting paper absorbs spilled ink. They say, the process is still reversible but I wonder whether I want to reverse. Come on, how does it go? “Keep a clear mind, not clouded even with compassion; let your love become dispassionate; don’t be sad don’t be happy do not be afraid - it’s the moment of your death"