Today, I prepare a funeral for myself. I clean the house, I walk through each room until I deem it safe. All things are put in their places, the dishes cleaned, the floor swept, the table cleared. I prepare for my leave of absence. I gather all the things I will need, and lay them out before me. I attend to the corpse: I wash the face, and lotion the hands, and trim the nails. I put on my most comfortable socks. And I ingest my last rites, preparing to die, for always, tripping involves dying. There is a symbolism, and also a reality to it that I cannot seem to escape. My mind tells me that these are natural reactions for someone with anxiety problems, that as long as I can salvage the trip, then that is what matters, and it’s alright to be afraid, and it’s alright to die. My body tells me that I am drowning. Pan out, and it is true. The mind is an ocean. I go out to swim, out too far, and I drown. Others float, and I drown. I drown and I die, and once I am dead, there is nothing else to worry about. For worry is only fear, and the fear is not in the death, but in the pain and anticipation of dying. Within the span of minutes, the impossible happens. I die and am dissolved, and I am the ocean. The ocean was me all along. I learn to sway, I learn the sounds of the Slowdown, the sounds of the icebergs, I feel the friction of the tides between my legs. I am water, boundless and countless. I am the bringer of life. The universe is in me. I await death with open arms.