A diary about the other side of moving abroad

The shattering of my last hope of rescue pulled the rug out from under my feet. I was going to die. Inevitably. It was only a matter of time. Although my mind was completely clear, my body was failing. My cocoon was rotting. I was trapped in a collapsing tower with no hope of escape. Without being able to call for help.
The realization that I would soon have to die was nothing new in itself. Everyone had to die at some point. Just I had to die a little sooner. Was the time difference really that significant? Regardless of whether I lived another 50 years or just a few minutes longer, the same thing awaits us all in the end. We have to face our own death. It's always the others who die. I thought about that now. But facing your own death is something else. It's more personal, it's more tangible, it's different from the death of the others. Every possibility of being disappears in front of your eyes. There is nothing in front of you. The insignificance of every single action gains meaning without the background of the overall context. The gentle word, the nice gesture and the friendly smile defy the yawning emptiness of the future and take on a new meaning, not embedded in holistic structures, but standing on their own. Everything becomes more personal. I thought about a few decisive moments in my life. Would I have made the same decisions again, if I had known how it would end? My fears and worries of the past seemed marginal and childish in the face of the definite end. With the final variables of life set, the possibilities erased and the clear path towards the end, the fears that normally gave hope to oneself were taken away. No hope, no fears. What was inside of me? Peace? I was less afraid of death than I had always thought. Now that it was so close, I was almost intrigued. Now that the path was outlined, all other options were blocked and hopes had withered, there was only life towards the end. Placing death in one's own historicity removed its abstractness. The personalization of the end of others, the intentionality towards one's own life, made it merely the end of my own story. The end that had never fitted into any plans now forced itself upon me and wanted its place in my personal history. Like a good schoolgirl who waited patiently until she was noticed, but at some point impatiently climbed onto her father's lap and demanded the attention she deserved from him because of her importance in his life. I was ready for that. I wanted to hug it. I wanted to meet it with open arms and welcome it. I wanted to die.