Death meet me.

I remember the first time I was no longer afraid of dying, it happened after decades of walking around with an iron clad chest, held tight with thick wrought links, wrapped around me in a concatenation of fear. Each link soldered together in the language of angst: locked, unbreakable. Through the girdle; unable to move, too afraid to think, too nervous to be. 

Be. 

I stepped outside on a bright day, and the canvas of a mountain appeared before me - in the distance - coming no closer with every step I took. The gray peak accented with valleys of feral green, which seemed no larger than a handspan of shrubbery. It held eons of wisdom in its unwavering existence. And as I put one foot in front of the other, in no extraordinary way, the chain cracked and fell to the ground. Unremarkably I knew I could die then and there, and it would all be okay. 

Existence needs me not, but nor do I need existence. 

I am free. Death meet me.