I am a pathological planner. I don’t breathe without thinking about one of my goals. I set daily goals, weekly goals, monthly goals, yearly goals, three-year goals, five-year goals, ten-year goals and life goals. One of my life goals is more of a death goal. Yes, I have planned my death.
When I die, I will be old, frail and grey-haired. I will be in a warm, lush, humid climate. The only sounds I will hear will be the sounds of nature all around me. From my window, I will see massive trees with massive leaves, perhaps even some birds and snakes. There will be an abundance of sunlight. The room will be radiant and golden. I will live near water. I will have sat beside a river or an ocean that very day and felt the power of its presence. I will be blissfully alone. If necessary, I will demand solitude. I’m fine with people being in the house as long as they fuck off and give me peace and quiet. I will lie in a comfortable bed, and I will glance at a stack of books and scripts. I will have them stacked near the window where I can see them because I will know that I am living my final days. When I draw my final breath, I will glance over at that stack, at all the worlds I created. I will thank God, feel the pain of my body shutting down and I will go on my way.
More than any other plan, this plan gives me fortitude, and it always makes me smile.