This is my dying will :
I trust that out of the few people that frequent this place; at least one would take it upon them to redeem me, for old time's sake.
Burn all my portraits. Most of them are in my studio, and the rest you will find in my parent's store room, in boxes tucked away. I wouldn't call them portraits; the ones I made in my childhood, but just to be on the safe side. They aren't many; for I stopped. Or tried to.
You'd say that I should just get up and do it now but I'll tell you that i'm too weak and fragile to abandon my only way of comfort.
I was told that my debts will be pardoned, so what's left of my money, kindly dole in my name and my parent's.
This is addressed to my siblings : take care of my mother. She cries a lot, a gentle soul made out of love; part of hers will go away with me, I'm sure. Keep talking to my dad, distract him constantly, try to make him laugh, he would figure your intentions and laugh anyway when he's crying inside. I took it upon myself to do that when his mother passed away.
I have no attachment to my personal belongings; you could give my clothes to the needy. Give my paintings to Amina. My Academic work to Hugh. Everything wooden to Wisal. My queer collectibles to Roxana.
It would be nice to give away my annotated books to my friends but I'd personally hate to have a reminder of a ghost stuck in my life like a piece of meat between one's teeth. My paintings and hand made stuff don't resemble me, or don't expose me as my books do.
Let me go, don't get hung up on my departure, but don't wipe out what's left of my existence.
I opted out of my social media accounts for various reasons so there is no worry of anything poisonous I said or posted being recycled. This blog I can't erase though. It's my proof of life.
I give you full freedom to publish any content you find worthy at your discretion and strictly under my name. See if my family would need the royalties and kindly give part of it to an organization that would put into good use. That is, if it ever sells.
And pray for me, I must selfishly ask. In the darkest hours, remember that I'll need it. Don't exert yourself; just a few whispers asking for mercy on my behalf is all I need. God will send you someone to do the same when you are gone.
And although I tried to live my life without regrets, with the rings of death constantly dangling from my earlobes, I have no means of knowing whether I unintentionally hurt a person.
I'm sorry, tell them, if you ever stumble upon the knowledge of my wronging a bitter soul that could never forgive me when I'm bedded beneath the soil.
Whatever it is that I did; I'm sorry.
That I hurt you. That I don't remember. That I haven't noticed.
If you read this while I'm still alive and feel that I owe you an apology, please let me know.
I'm forever haunted by the sad ghosts of those who have left, the wheezes of the lumps of unspoken words in one's chest, withheld feelings bulging and degenerating, dripping along with one's blood and tears, invisible footprints, traces of their presence on the floor, on walls, on cushions, on door handles, on steering wheels, on dented pages, on the remote control, in one's heart, a reminder of the brevity of life, buckets of regret splashed over everywhere in a vain attempt to ease the stings of loss, that I never wish for anyone to get subjected to this kind of pain : the prospect of never being forgiven by a person.
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