Stories and News No. 683
Brittany Maynard has only six months left and has decided to die on November 1.
She will use a right.
The right to choose when and how to leave.
This makes me recall a phrase, inspired by a woman bereft of her husband because of an apparently blind, but certainly dumb bomb.
For a life going away, there's always another one arriving.
Well, if a life goes away claiming a right, leave behind billions of lives.
With the gift of same number of rights.
The right to shake hands with the present moment, here and now, really.
And the right to write with your pen, your own history.
The right to understand what is really important, shutting down the noise by fools who rush around us.
And the right of coloring at your will what is darkness is for everyone, beyond the last boundary.
Despite some claims to know more than you.
Sacred right, that.
Because if you take away from me the choice to imagine a horizon of my taste, while I'm here, maybe in a far from pleasant time, how do you think I can face the enemy that put me there?
Don’t you understand that, by chaining my fantasy, you're the best ally of the latter?
The right to remain silent and listen.
Watching.
Admiring.
Maybe learning.
And, beyond the seen, read or heard, the right to feel.
The emotion hidden between word and word, the sensation masked by letter.
Read as well as the sincere melody of the most neglected notes in the world.
That is, the light in the eyes of a woman in love with something much more important than the mere existence: a happy life.
The hands vibrating with emotion, of course, pain, yes, bitterness, I agree.
Dancing with sad tears at the same pace, sure.
But even the parts of a whole body singing loudly, in unison, the same verse.
I'm alive.
Now, I'm alive.
I'm alive.
Now.
Now that's all I have.
And now it's all that you have, now.
From that a right above all.
The right to choose now.
What to do with my time at the end of these simple words.
My time.
Our time.
And yours.
I could go on but, in my humble opinion, this is already too much.
Thank you, Brittany.
Thank you for giving us the memory of those rights we possess.
Locked in a drawer...
Also on Stories and News:
Brittany Maynard has only six months left and has decided to die on November 1.
The right to choose when and how to leave.
This makes me recall a phrase, inspired by a woman bereft of her husband because of an apparently blind, but certainly dumb bomb.
For a life going away, there's always another one arriving.
Well, if a life goes away claiming a right, leave behind billions of lives.
With the gift of same number of rights.
The right to shake hands with the present moment, here and now, really.
And the right to write with your pen, your own history.
The right to understand what is really important, shutting down the noise by fools who rush around us.
And the right of coloring at your will what is darkness is for everyone, beyond the last boundary.
Despite some claims to know more than you.
Sacred right, that.
Because if you take away from me the choice to imagine a horizon of my taste, while I'm here, maybe in a far from pleasant time, how do you think I can face the enemy that put me there?
Don’t you understand that, by chaining my fantasy, you're the best ally of the latter?
The right to remain silent and listen.
Watching.
Admiring.
Maybe learning.
And, beyond the seen, read or heard, the right to feel.
The emotion hidden between word and word, the sensation masked by letter.
Read as well as the sincere melody of the most neglected notes in the world.
That is, the light in the eyes of a woman in love with something much more important than the mere existence: a happy life.
The hands vibrating with emotion, of course, pain, yes, bitterness, I agree.
Dancing with sad tears at the same pace, sure.
But even the parts of a whole body singing loudly, in unison, the same verse.
I'm alive.
Now, I'm alive.
I'm alive.
Now.
Now that's all I have.
And now it's all that you have, now.
From that a right above all.
The right to choose now.
What to do with my time at the end of these simple words.
My time.
Our time.
And yours.
I could go on but, in my humble opinion, this is already too much.
Thank you, Brittany.
Thank you for giving us the memory of those rights we possess.
Locked in a drawer...
Also on Stories and News: