[ WP ] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death . Your date has passed , but nothing happened .

I thought about it again. I could n't really explain how I `` knew'', but it was something that people were always able to conceive, just like a sixth sense. The ability to tell when one's own life was going to end, the except time and date. For some people they shared it openly and constantly, and for others they kept their times hidden away. For some people, a far-off date and time was a sign of prestige. Hell, some people even had benefits if they were either due for a super long or super short life. 
 
 
 But it did n't make sense. I thought about it, and I thought hard. Like I said, I still do n't know how I was able to just bring it to head, but I could. And despite the numbers floating through my mind simply reading `` December 19th, 2030'', nothing had happened. Interestingly, the cause of death is not determined, just the time and date. So for some people they'd simply off themselves on the day. Others would get themselves all tucked and cozy in their beds and then simply die in their sleep inexplicably. Others were not so lucky, getting shot by gang members or hit by Maglev trains on their daily commute. 
 
 
 I personally had already fulfilled what I wanted for the day, and was planning to end my life simply with a Beretta M9. I had a nice plate of Fugu Sashimi. A bit of a risk but hey, if I was gon na die today, might as well go for it. I had watched a nice movie, finished a good read, chatted with some of my friends before saying goodbye, for the last time. Of course, they did n't know, but they'd understand when they saw the news. I never liked talking to people about when I was gon na die, so I mainly just kept it to myself. But regardless, I was still boggled. 
 
 
 The day ended, and December 20th dawned. It must be a fluke. Surely it had to have been, right? But it could n't have. As long as I could conceive what the number meant, I knew that it was December 19th, 2030. Even had the time, at 11:19 PM. It felt like an eon since that time had passed when in reality it had only been 41 minutes. And so I got ready for the next day of work. What was I to even do? I could n't just stop. Surely if the clock did n't read right then there was something else, there had to be. But I tried to push it to the back of my mind, and put on a smile for everyone. Go through my daily routines and rituals, talk with my girlfriend, and the other various daily deeds. 
 
 
 But as the days passed I could n't stop thinking about it. I stayed up late trying to fathom it, I worked across the day on my writings about it. Study after study, I ended up getting careless. It was showing on me, my disheveled look and bloodshot, baggy eyes. People were concerned that my'time' was finally coming, but I simply shook my head and said `` Trust me, it ca n't be'coming'.'' After all, I should've already died, right? Maybe I was a spirit, having some kind of crazy hallucination of still being alive when in reality nobody could see or hear me. 
 
 
 My confliction with the subject got worse and worse. Soon my job was on the line because of my obsession over the conflict, my girlfriend worried about me. We had taken a break from the relationship, but how was that supposed to help? All it did was make me crave the golden-malt drink of a good beer, enough to preferably send me into a deep, catatonic state at least once a week. But what did it matter? I had died, I had to of died. Family stopped calling, mail stopped delivering. People thought that I was dying, but I was n't. 
 
 
 My whole life was n't even to the point of living anymore, I just wanted to desperately understand. I wanted to tell everybody that I was fine, that I could n't possibly be dying. My bed was n't my bed, the stool in front of the kitchen table was, where I drank and drank, wrote and wrote. At some point I did n't have any lead left, and just scratched across the papers with an invisible bit of graphite. And in those faint, winking hours of the morning, from days to weeks, months to years, I could see myself getting older, weaker. But I was n't dying. 
 
 I searched my soul deep inside, to find a pit. An empty spot where I had once been alive. My state on the surface was a wreck, a shambling mess of existence. But it was alive. It walked, it breathed and talked. Wrote, read, drank, cried. But the reality was, deep inside my blackened soul, I was already dead.
