Reaping the Answer

No, I never wanted it to be like this.

When I imagined my (after) life, I always pictured some sunny meadow, painted by sunlight, warmed by the radiating knowledge that it was smooth sailing here on out. I figured I'd run into Hunter, the greyhound I grew up with until his untimely passing when I was fifteen years old. We'd romp and run and chase each other like we used to when I was wide-eyed and hopeful and no taller than my father's thigh. Then, we'd fall onto our backs, surrounded by blades of grass so soft, they'd kiss our very skin. We'd stare up at the materialized eternity above us, knowing that we could get up and do it all over again the next day.

So it makes sense that this was the furthest thing from my mind when that vagabond by the subway steps reached out his hand, and I absent-mindedly took it to help him stand.

Like I said, I never wanted it to be like this. I never wanted to be the most hated entity that has ever existed. I'm cursed on a second-by-second basis. People mourn me, people hate me, people pray and wish for me to stop existing. What's worse is that I cause some of the worst heartbreak and most intense pain for people I've never even met. We are but strangers and yet, we're closer than they have ever been with anyone in their lives before. We are tied by darkness. We are tied by that which no longer exists. We are tied by the absence of life.

I suppose the question to answer now is: how does one find himself in this profession? Perhaps the question is: what IS this profession?

Please, let me explain ..