Death is the final destination for all who live; yet, the process of getting there is the most elaborate, and the most arduous one of all. Everyone prays to their own higher power that their death is quick; everyone forgets that they are already in the process of arriving there.
The timer starts from the very moment we take our first breath, scream our first syllables, and thrust our feeble hands to the sky; but we only ever realise how close the second hand is to counting to zero when somebody else’s timer abruptly sprints to the finish line, or when there’s a jump that makes our heart temporarily stop beating.
There is, however, another scenario I would think to be the most arduous and painful of all: One where you are told how many seconds are left, based on the number of cells in your body that are still on your side, but you are not given the luxury to worry about it; the hilarious thing is /you/ aren’t allowed to be aware of it anymore, as to continue living is to live in a half-aware state - the alternative is to curse every extra second that brings about inexplicable pains and aches that you have no control over - so you don’t consciously show that you are aware of your limited time left breathing Earth’s air.
But everyone else is. Everyone else is lucid enough to know how many seconds are left in your clock, but nobody knows - knows for sure - if /you/ are aware. So this portion of their lives is spent watching as you spend away yours in Dream In A Liquid™, because the alternative is to have them watch you struggle and writhe as your body decimates itself, microscopic layer by layer, until the day the invisible enemy triumphs, and your physical self is laid to waste.
Until that day, you spend your days swimming in and out of consciousness; the rest around you are calefare: extras to the extraordinary run of your time on Earth.
But those extras are the main characters in their own story, and their own seconds run parallel to yours. How slowly those seconds seem to run, and how much must they wish for yours to speed on to the final second, or abruptly reverse and undo all that has been inflicted on you.
Yet, Time is as unbending and unyielding as the process of dying; they are, after all, the one and the same. As your timer approaches zero, your calefare will, too, have their second hands surge on, resolutely making its revolution around the clock.
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