One step, two steps, three, four… I’m getting closer. My heart reaches for the freedom, my head gasps for clarity. You see, everything that people say about the first step being the hardest is wrong. It is that last step, that sense of finality, that feeling that you have achieved your life’s purpose… What would I be after that last step? What would my life mean? I pause for a moment until I look down and remember what I was running from in the first place. It’s enough to keep me going for now. I don’t want to be contained anymore. My heart will keep beating and my filthy blood will continue to fight, to fill every fibre of my body with life and hope until the end. But why is it that in this moment, I find myself searching for more time? I have never been afraid of death; in fact, at some points in my life I have welcomed it. There was something I couldn’t get out of my head. I couldn’t die now, having loved, having lost, having been betrayed. Surely there is something more. “I’m not done yet,” I whisper to myself as I race on into the darkness, into the unknown, both unafraid and petrified at the same time.