By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: July 11, 2005

I thought that I’d write stories in the time I have left.
“There is something intrinsically valuable about writing. The urge to create does not need to be rationalized,” said Terry. He looked at me gently through his small eyes. I listened to his shallow breathing, which blended with the sound of forced breaths of other patients in the background. The night had freshly descended, and I looked out the window while I figure out how to respond. Terry is much older than I am. He claimed to like cars when we first met, which made me suspicious. But eventually I saw that it was a kind of affection for a machine built by the hands of the common man. There was something noble in that. He claims there is something noble about writing stories, although I can’t imagine what he means. I don’t really know what nobility means either.
“Yes, I agree. Stories tell us who we are. But that’s not going to help me become a writer. Writing is like sitting through rush hour traffic”, I say, as I begin to think that constipation is a much better analogy. “I think you’ve bought into that romantic ideal of the artist who is merely a vehicle for language to flow through. It’s all just a myth.” Terry puts down his mug, takes a long breath of air, and leans forward.
“There is something you have,” he paused, “I see it in you. A conflict between what you are facing and who you want to become. Write about that – it’s in you, it’s authentic.”
“There is something in everyone Terry. What I have isn’t special. I have to stop pretending to be the victim.”
“Then stop. Stop complaining and just write something. Stop thinking about living up to the entire canon of English literature. Remember the first words Gabrielle spoke to Mohammed?”
“God said ‘read’, not write!”
“To read is to write. Both search for and construct meaning in a system of reality made up of the words on the page. Every man is born a scribe. It is already in you.”
“But Mohammed couldn’t read.”
“He didn’t need to know how. He just read. God taught mankind by the pen (INSERT SOMETHING HERE FROM THE TORAH?).” Terry had been studying the Abrahamic religions in order to prove some theory of interconnectivity. Doctrines were meshing together in his brain and he would often quote from the Torah and claim is was from the Quran. I had given up on religion. If they were all the same, it all became so arbitrary. I wanted to change the subject, and I thought of something that would still keep him appeased.
“Some people ask me what it feels like to know that I’m going to die.”
“What do you tell them?” asks Terry.
“I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it”. Terry continues to look me in the eyes, not saying anything. I know he doesn’t believe me. The silence between us feels very awkward, but he seems comfortable like he always does.
“I think question is absurd”, I say quickly, “Death is an absence. It is an empty word we give to a concept that we know nothing about. Once dead, you cannot think “this is what it is to be dead”. Therefore, how can I say what it feels like, when really, it isn’t anything at all?” I felt a bit relieved. Terry looked out the window. The street was very still, patient. I think Terry was getting a bit restless.
“Is that what you say to yourself when you put on your pants in the morning?” he asked.
“You put on your pants the same way I do, one leg at a time.”
“That’s not what I meant. (HERE, MAYBE LOOK AT SOME OF TERRY’s COMMENTS)
“Stories are born with a beginning, and end like a death.”
“I’m not so sure. Stories resemble reincarnation. They can be read over and over, interpreted differently at different moments in time. They exist beyond us”, says Terry.

“How can you say that?” my voice is rising. Terry, understand that one day you are going to die! And when you do, none of this is going to matter. Do you want answers from me? There are no answers. Go home and watch porno. Kant cannot be proven true anymore than porno can.” Terry looked like he was holding his breath.
Have you ever seen someone die, asks Terry.
Yes, I have.
What’s it like? I pause for a very long time, trying to remember.
I really don’t know.
“I watched my friend die. He had only a couple of hours left. I helped him sit in a comfortable chair. It was midnight and the hospital was very quiet. Talked to him a little bit, trying very hard to fake a calm, peaceful environment. There were so many emotions raging inside me all I could to be quiet. Then he started to die: he stop breathing, paused, started again. Stopped, longer pause, started again. For about 5 minutes, until a long enough time had past when he didn’t take another breath. I sat staring at his body, partly because it was possible he was still playing the game, party because I didn’t know what else to do.”
Terry laughs quietly when he talk about his friend’s breathing game as if a chuckle is the only way he can get his mouth to speak the words.

I’m really sorry Terry.
Why? It’s sad that he’s gone. But watching him die wasn’t sad. I don’t know if I can explain to you what it felt like.
What should I write about?
What about what it feels like.
But I already told you that it doesn’t… Terry looked at me in the eyes, a gentle but firm look.

Sometimes people ask me what knowing that I’m going to die is like. It’s like something we’ve all experienced, except that there is no future for the dying. They can only look behind. Right now you’re reading these words which means you’re not looking behind you or directly in front of you. But if you kept reading these words, and then in the back of your mind start to think about what if there was someone behind you, who was about to put their hand on your shoulder. You start to get paranoid and start to imagine what it would feel like to have their sweaty palm hover over your shoulder while you’re reading these words. What if they were right behind you? If they were so close to the back of your neck you could feel the heat of their body in the surrounding air you as your read these lines. You begin to imagine that air getting warmer. Now you might be tempted to look back and make sure there is no one there. If you’d like to do this, please go ahead. But remember that if it was death that was right behind you, waiting patiently, you’d look up from reading this and you wouldn’t be able to see him. And you’d get paranoid and look back again. But again he wouldn’t be there. And you’d keep looking back to see nothing, only emptiness where you were expecting something to be. This is what it is like to know that you are going to die: there is no forward, only looking behind to see an empty space.
Terry looked behind him while he waited for me to respond.
Ok, I said. I’ll write about it.