Glorified and embellished, you've read all about the tales of poetic demise in your fictional genres. It's difficult to figure out which is worse: realizing you've been lied to, or having to call a ceasefire between you and this charade of immortality.
Your composure is weakened with each beep of the monitor, every dosage of medication. It laces your brain with the bitter residue of nostalgia: all the things you never were and never will be again. Or really, it might just be the tumors carving their lethal abodes into your marrow.
Time is no longer a measurement so much as it is a hindrance. What you wouldn't sacrifice to escape this tube-ridden, half-lidded brand of survival. It's not the pain that sets your nerves on edge; it's the waiting.
The finality of it all is so daunting, so overwhelming that you could choke on it this very second, rather than four months from now. It wouldn't matter if it killed you physically, just as long as it devoured this mounting tension that rattles your mind.
Somewhere between shuddering and second-guessing, you drift off into the realm of slumber. It is here that you encounter a crossroads. To your left stands a stone altar, embossed and flecked with metallica, and to your right, a tree of indistinguishable specimen. Before you can decide which figure to approach, you feel a burden of nothingness exalt itself above your head, hovering patiently, intently.
And for the first time, in an unmistakably long time, you open your eyes. You really open your eyes.