Aisha descends to the underworld

I am Aisha. I will die within seven days. And until then I decided to write. I do not know how writing is supposed to start, probably from a place like this.. where everything is leafed through with doubt. Writing seems to be the only thing I can do. I want to put a final dot on the last line before absence swallows me. I have decided that my last days will be like this. I mean: like writing. The word is a fragile and crumbling creature, it resembles me. And I.. in my last days, I want to resemble myself as much as I can. I do this for myself. These papers, this writing, this wound: mine. This writing is not a documentation of my life. The past was not worth attention, everything has already ended, and this writing leads nowhere, and I do not believe I have lived a life worth documenting. I write to be clear with myself, alone with myself, full of myself. This writing does not heal, but kills. Death is good, and I want it with all my heart.