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(upon death)
I’m about to set off on my bicycle through the chaos of Brooklyn heading to Work, over the Brooklyn Bridge, past where the Mayor makes bad decisions, onto the river’s edge and up the Island to the Castle on the Hill.
I do this every day. 5 days a week. 25 miles a day. 125+ a week.
I think about dying every day. It’s cathartic, really. To think about dying unwillingly.
Two days ago an urgent feeling swept over me. I thought about what I’ve never told anyone that has been defining of my character. Important decisions I’ve made alone. Secrets.
I suddenly wanted to let go of all my secrets. I hate them, anyway. They’re a remnant of my angsty youth, of wanting You to just know. Ahem, of wanting You to just know. (You were always fictitious). Silly, really. Remnants I’ve not figured out how to circumnavigate when the stakes are too high to Tell.
So I ride off again. Mimicking the seagulls coasting along the water’s edge. Scanning the horizon constantly.
I’m not sure it matters one way or the other. That’s why they’re secrets. Elusive allusions.
And perhaps better left as such.
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