A breeze blows up, touching my cheek like a little child's kiss. It flutters a piece of paper. "Trash, out there? Must belong to one of us." We move closer, and when I reached for it, I find...... a perfect paper airplane.

A chatWith the Grim Reapershould be enough to scareaway any thought of relapse.Wish it were that easy,but not even days conversingwith death can disintegratethe claws of addiction.

Why are we here? Is there, really, some intelligent design? Why do we cry for someone who leaves us, if there's some Grand Pearly Gate in the sky? Why worry about how we build our lives if the ultimate ending for all is death, a single breath away?

Yes, I believe that there is life after death. Any physicist will tell you that energy doesn't die, it only changes forms. What makes you you, Alex? That hunk of gray matter inside your skull? No way. You- all of us- have a life force. Energy. Some people call it a soul. Whatever you call it, it makes you you. And when your body dies, your energy will remain. I can't say for sure what heaven is. But I have faith that it's a special place, and that you will be welcome there.

She's no longer afraid to die. What she's afraid of is living, accepting the status quo.

The wind kicks in stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe skeletons. Bones of abandonment. Ghosts that will never be.