by Timothy Sullivan
The day I died began like any other; I woke alone. My life used to be packed with people: two sisters, two brothers, lots of friends from school and my early working years, but slowly, over a long time, they began to fall away. A wife came and went, without children, and I suppose my withdrawal began to get more serious after she said goodbye. I wrote a lot of mediocre poetry for obscure publications until I moved out West, where, trying to reduce experience to its essence, I abandoned phone, computer, even radio. I found inspiration in the desolate, wild places and finally produced the work I'd always wanted, poems that were praised by critics and taught in universities. When I woke that day I knew it would be my last, and I realized, to no surprise, that I hadn't lived my life so much as I had waited, watching, as it passed.
Timothy Sullivan is a journalist in New York. More of his writing can be found on his website.