Before I Go

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My Story Before the Song

What does it mean to write a song when you're not sure how many days you have left to sing it?
"Before I Go" didn’t begin as a song - it began as an attempt to organize the chaos inside me. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Literally. Like: Should I delete my voicemails? Sort my files? Clean my desk? What do you do when you know time is short, but the to-do list doesn’t seem to care?

This song came out of the strange, surreal days after I decided to step away from chemotherapy - to stop fighting in the way the system wanted me to and instead live what I have left in my own rhythm. I don’t know how much time I have. I don’t know how this ends. But I do know that while I’m still here - coughing, breathing, writing - I want to be real. And part of that reality is this song.

I have lung cancer since nineteen years. But I’ve never had metastases. The left lung is now my only lung. And it’s failing me. The tumors - the monsters - are growing. And as they grow, they take my air. More and more of it. Every breath, a little less mine.

So I spend a lot of time wondering what kind of death this will be. Will I suffocate? Will I feel it slowly? Will I panic? Will I know? What I hope for is something simple. That one night - when it’s time - my lung will just… stop. That I’ll fall asleep and not wake up. No pain. No gasping. No machines. Just stillness. That’s the death I want.

And no, I can’t sugarcoat that. It’s the naked truth. It’s not a goodbye letter. It’s not a bucket list. It’s just me, sitting in the in-between - that liminal space where life and death hold hands, argue about the dishes, and leave the windows open.

And okay, fine, yes: it’s a song with almost perfect rhymes. Because even now - especially now - I am still a perfectionist. Maybe because I can’t control what happens in my body, I try to make everything else align: the structure, the syllables, the rhyme schemes. I spent more time debating the line "Should I leave notes, or drift away?" than I did writing half of verse two. I still tinker with phrasing like it might save me. Spoiler: it won’t. But it helps. Rhymes don’t make the pain go away. They don’t give answers. But they give a nice shape to the questions. And that’s something. It’s strange what becomes meaningful at the end.

I recently bought a new laptop. I don’t know why. I might not live long enough to really use it. But it felt like something I needed to do. Like I couldn’t bear the idea of not finishing… whatever it is I’m still trying to finish. It sits on my desk like a quiet little metaphor for hope and futility - and, probably, poor financial planning.

And then there’s my tree - my douglas fir in the Friedwald. I’ve chosen it. Reserved it. I visit it. I sit with it. Knowing where I will rest gives me a strange kind of strength. A sense of grounding. It’s one of the few things I’ve been able to decide completely for myself. One of the few endings that feels gentle. That tree isn’t just a burial plot - it’s my anchor. My final act of control in a life that never really played by the rules.

Friedwald ("Peace Forest") is a form of natural burial that takes place in a protected forest. The ashes of the deceased are buried at the roots of a living tree. Over time, the tree absorbs the ashes, becoming a symbol of continuity and connection with nature. No gravestones, no maintenance - the forest takes care of it. It is a place of rest and remembrance, deeply personal and profoundly alive.

And here’s something else I’ve done: I wrote my testament. My will. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t fun. But it matters. Now I know that if something happens - when something happens - everything will go where I want it to go. Not into confusion. Not into the wrong hands. Not into a drawer nobody opens.

Too many people avoid this topic because they think they’re not dying. But here’s the truth: we’re all dying. Not just people with cancer. Not just people in pain. Accidents happen. Life changes. And suddenly the people you love are left guessing. So talk about it. Write it down.

What happens to your kids if you’re not here tomorrow?
What happens to your pets? Your accounts? Your passwords?

Don’t wait until you "have time." Do it now. Regulate. Decide. Name what matters. 
That’s not giving up - that’s love in its grown-up form.

This is a song about what it feels like to live inside the pause - not the dramatic climax or the peaceful ending, but the long middle silence where you’re still alive, but no longer sure how to be. It’s about exhaustion, and wonder, and sorting your digital life while your physical one frays. It’s about being too tired to be brave, and too alive to quit. It’s about wondering if anyone will remember you - and deciding that even if they don’t, maybe they’ll still hum your song.

I wrote "Before I Go" with one lung, too many thoughts, a new laptop, and more gratitude than I know how to express. Not because I’m trying to say something wise or final - but because I’m still here, still creating, still needing to say something true.

So here it is. Not clean. Not easy. Not finished. But real.

And yes… the rhymes are now exactly how I want them.

🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿

The last chemo didn’t help
They offered me another one
I said no
There’s still a clinical trial - maybe
But I’m not holding my breath

I live between decisions now 
Not cured, not giving in
I don’t fight like I used to fight
But something still begins

So now I live in the breath between 
Not healed, not gone
Still asking the questions
Before I have to move on

Do I still plan 
Or just prepare
Is this a life 
Or just thin air

Before I go - what matters now
What’s worth finishing? What fades somehow
Should I leave notes, or drift away
I don’t know the answers
But I live the weight
Before I go - I still hold on
But I get tired, I’m not always strong
I still fight, just not every hour
And that’s still love
And that’s still power

The songs will stay - but they’re not me
Just echoes left of how I used to be
They won’t recall the name I wore so long
But maybe still they’ll hum me when I’m gone

I keep thinking there’s something to do
But maybe it’s done - maybe it’s true
That being alive is the last thing left
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough breath

Before I go - what do I need
A cleaner desk? A final deed
Do I delete old voicemails, or make new art
Do I let go - or fall apart
Before I go - this can’t be planned
I’m still confused. I still don’t understand
But I write, I cough, I feel the slow 
And I’m still here
Before I go

Sometimes I hope
It just ends in my sleep
No hospitals
No tubes
No beep
Just light, or dark, or maybe... blank
I’ve given all I had to thank
Is that enough

I’m scared
I’m calm
I want more
I want it done
I’m strong
I’m breaking
I feel peace
And then I run

Before I go - let it be real
Not brave, not clean - just what I feel
No need for answers, no perfect line 
Just this breath, this hour, this time
Before I go - don’t call it brave
It’s just my way to ride each wave
I’m here, unsure, but still I show
Up for my life
Before I go

No map. No sign
Just me, this lung, this open line
Still wondering when - but not saying no
Just living
Before I go

✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️

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My Story Before the Song What does it mean to write a song when you're not sure how many days you have left to sing it? "Before I Go" didn’t begin as a song - it began as an attempt to organize the chaos inside me. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Literally. Like: Should I delete my voicemails? Sort my files? Clean my desk? What do you do when you know time is short, but the to-do list doesn’t seem to care? This song came out of the strange, surreal days after I decided to step away from chemotherapy - to stop fighting in the way the system wanted me to and instead live what I have left in my own rhythm. I don’t know how much time I have. I don’t know how this ends. But I do know that while I’m still here - coughing, breathing, writing - I want to be real. And part of that reality is this song. I have lung cancer since nineteen years. But I’ve never had metastases. The left lung is now my only lung. And it’s failing me. The tumors - the monsters - are growing. And as they grow, they take my air. More and more of it. Every breath, a little less mine. So I spend a lot of time wondering what kind of death this will be. Will I suffocate? Will I feel it slowly? Will I panic? Will I know? What I hope for is something simple. That one night - when it’s time - my lung will just… stop. That I’ll fall asleep and not wake up. No pain. No gasping. No machines. Just stillness. That’s the death I want. And no, I can’t sugarcoat that. It’s the naked truth. It’s not a goodbye letter. It’s not a bucket list. It’s just me, sitting in the in-between - that liminal space where life and death hold hands, argue about the dishes, and leave the windows open. And okay, fine, yes: it’s a song with almost perfect rhymes. Because even now - especially now - I am still a perfectionist. Maybe because I can’t control what happens in my body, I try to make everything else align: the structure, the syllables, the rhyme schemes. I spent more time debating the line "Should I leave notes, or drift away?" than I did writing half of verse two. I still tinker with phrasing like it might save me. Spoiler: it won’t. But it helps. Rhymes don’t make the pain go away. They don’t give answers. But they give a nice shape to the questions. And that’s something. It’s strange what becomes meaningful at the end. I recently bought a new laptop. I don’t know why. I might not live long enough to really use it. But it felt like something I needed to do. Like I couldn’t bear the idea of not finishing… whatever it is I’m still trying to finish. It sits on my desk like a quiet little metaphor for hope and futility - and, probably, poor financial planning. And then there’s my tree - my douglas fir in the Friedwald. I’ve chosen it. Reserved it. I visit it. I sit with it. Knowing where I will rest gives me a strange kind of strength. A sense of grounding. It’s one of the few things I’ve been able to decide completely for myself. One of the few endings that feels gentle. That tree isn’t just a burial plot - it’s my anchor. My final act of control in a life that never really played by the rules. Friedwald ("Peace Forest") is a form of natural burial that takes place in a protected forest. The ashes of the deceased are buried at the roots of a living tree. Over time, the tree absorbs the ashes, becoming a symbol of continuity and connection with nature. No gravestones, no maintenance - the forest takes care of it. It is a place of rest and remembrance, deeply personal and profoundly alive. And here’s something else I’ve done: I wrote my testament. My will. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t fun. But it matters. Now I know that if something happens - when something happens - everything will go where I want it to go. Not into confusion. Not into the wrong hands. Not into a drawer nobody opens. Too many people avoid this topic because they think they’re not dying. But here’s the truth: we’re all dying. Not just people with cancer. Not just people in pain. Accidents happen. Life changes. And suddenly the people you love are left guessing. So talk about it. Write it down. What happens to your kids if you’re not here tomorrow? What happens to your pets? Your accounts? Your passwords? Don’t wait until you "have time." Do it now. Regulate. Decide. Name what matters. That’s not giving up - that’s love in its grown-up form. This is a song about what it feels like to live inside the pause - not the dramatic climax or the peaceful ending, but the long middle silence where you’re still alive, but no longer sure how to be. It’s about exhaustion, and wonder, and sorting your digital life while your physical one frays. It’s about being too tired to be brave, and too alive to quit. It’s about wondering if anyone will remember you - and deciding that even if they don’t, maybe they’ll still hum your song. I wrote "Before I Go" with one lung, too many thoughts, a new laptop, and more gratitude than I know how to express. Not because I’m trying to say something wise or final - but because I’m still here, still creating, still needing to say something true. So here it is. Not clean. Not easy. Not finished. But real. And yes… the rhymes are now exactly how I want them. 🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿 The last chemo didn’t help They offered me another one I said no There’s still a clinical trial - maybe But I’m not holding my breath I live between decisions now Not cured, not giving in I don’t fight like I used to fight But something still begins So now I live in the breath between Not healed, not gone Still asking the questions Before I have to move on Do I still plan Or just prepare Is this a life Or just thin air Before I go - what matters now What’s worth finishing? What fades somehow Should I leave notes, or drift away I don’t know the answers But I live the weight Before I go - I still hold on But I get tired, I’m not always strong I still fight, just not every hour And that’s still love And that’s still power The songs will stay - but they’re not me Just echoes left of how I used to be They won’t recall the name I wore so long But maybe still they’ll hum me when I’m gone I keep thinking there’s something to do But maybe it’s done - maybe it’s true That being alive is the last thing left And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough breath Before I go - what do I need A cleaner desk? A final deed Do I delete old voicemails, or make new art Do I let go - or fall apart Before I go - this can’t be planned I’m still confused. I still don’t understand But I write, I cough, I feel the slow And I’m still here Before I go Sometimes I hope It just ends in my sleep No hospitals No tubes No beep Just light, or dark, or maybe... blank I’ve given all I had to thank Is that enough I’m scared I’m calm I want more I want it done I’m strong I’m breaking I feel peace And then I run Before I go - let it be real Not brave, not clean - just what I feel No need for answers, no perfect line Just this breath, this hour, this time Before I go - don’t call it brave It’s just my way to ride each wave I’m here, unsure, but still I show Up for my life Before I go No map. No sign Just me, this lung, this open line Still wondering when - but not saying no Just living Before I go ✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️ Lyrics and text © 2025 Thousand Tomorrows. All rights reserved. Written from the soul. Echoed through sound. ✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️

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