Slipping through my fingers

It arises in the middle of my work, when I’m writing or revising news stories; as I lay in bed for a quick afternoon slump, aimlessly staring at the blankness of my ceiling; and during the deathly silence of midnight, broken only by occasional phone pings.

Death does not scare me. I have long danced around the idea of mortality and the many ways by which it is fulfilled. I’ve witnessed the end of life as we know it in many forms: from a man drawing his last breath in a midday accident, or an evening raid, and his loved ones lamenting the loss of warmth and familiarity, to the fading of brilliant ideas that may never see the light of day, shackled by compromises, both external and internal.

What I find myself fearing the most these days is losing the wonders that make life more bearable. I imagine myself staring at the structure of letters and the organization of words, not comprehending what they mean. It scares me to think about a day when I will lose my capabilities and abilities to express myself — not merely because I couldn’t find the right words, which happens quite often, but because there are no words anymore.

To grab a book and see only bound sheets of paper. To watch a film and not understand what is being said and not said. To play music without feeling its melody and rhythm.

I fear the day the language of words, images, and music, through which life begets beauty, would slip through my fingers. And there will be no way to stop it. •