Seven Day Writing Challenge Day Six a Testament From the Shoreline of Life

Luna Tian

I was five years old that summer, lying on a small bed in kindergarten. The afternoon sun spilled gently through the slits in the curtains, and the room was as quiet as a slow, soothing dream. I opened my eyes and saw a plane drifting across the distant sky. Suddenly, a thought struck me: what if one day, I fall asleep and never wake up again? That was the first time I seriously thought: one day, I too will leave this world.

At the time, I felt not fear, but a strange lightness—a kind of relief, as though a tiny soul, after facing endless challenges, had finally found rest. Life, I realized, is a slow and continuous journey, and from that afternoon on, I knew the road ahead would be filled with difficulties and choices. School would be tiring, growing up would be hard. Though I cherished the richness and beauty of life, deep down, I never resisted the idea of death. Its presence gave me a sense of calm, even in the face of hardship.

As I grew older, death never felt distant or heavy. Instead, it carried a quiet, gentle quality. In many solitary moments, I imagined what my own funeral would be like. I pictured something warm and soft. I hoped to say goodbye to my friends while I still had the strength—to sit together, to share the paths I had walked, and to revisit both the pain and the sweetness. I never wanted a solemn or overly formal ceremony; that kind of atmosphere never suited me. I think my farewell should feel like the final gathering of my life—filled with laughter, stories, and warmth.

If I had the right to choose, I would let music guide the rhythm of my farewell. I would begin with David Bowie’s Space Oddity, a song that symbolizes my life—it allowed me to gaze into the universe and into myself. Then I’d play Seasons in the Sun, which captures the youthful, vibrant days I hold as the most vivid memories of life. If I Die Young would follow, echoing the stillness and beauty I’ve always longed for. And my favorite, Happiness Is Not a Love Song, would be for my friends—to let them know that despite all the suffering, my life was full of joy and hope. After that song, I would leave a video montage—a record of the years we spent together, the companionship we shared—because I want them to know how deeply I loved them.

Then I’d play Will This World Be Better? by Li Zhi, a song that might stir deeper reflections on the future. And finally, I’d close with a song from the musical The Bucket List, which speaks of dreams—of love, longing, reluctance, and resolution.

In my will, I hope to leave behind more than possessions. I want to leave behind comfort—a deep kind of reassurance. I want to pass on my books, my writing, and the dreams I never had time to complete. I hope someone will continue these tasks and ideals. I have always been a dreamer, and I truly believe this world will become better. If that day ever comes, I hope someone will stand at my grave and softly tell me the good news. Even if I can no longer see or hear, the mere thought of it would warm and soften my heart.

My values are simple: I believe in the fundamental goodness of humanity. I believe kindness and gentleness can inspire one another and bring about change. Human society should be a place where everyone can live with dignity—where no one is left behind, and each person is free to do what they love, without hurting others or the world. I want to pass on this belief, to encourage others to be good to each other, and good to the world.

At my funeral, I hope someone will read an excerpt from Keats’ Hyperion, and recite his epitaph:
“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”
To live in this world is to sail upon water—fleeting, yes, but also precious and beautiful because of it.

I hope people remember me as someone real, someone interesting, someone who loved life; as a kind but stubborn fighter; as a loyal, reliable friend and partner. I will continue to watch over and bless them from the other side, and wherever I am, our love will never fade.

To me, death has never been a shadow hanging over life—it is more like a calm reminder. It reminds me to face challenges with resolve, and to return kindness and sincerity to life. Writing this will, I don’t feel fear or sadness. I feel a kind of completeness. It means I’ve taken responsibility for my life, and am drawing a final, thoughtful period to what remains undone.

If I were to leave the world tomorrow, perhaps my greatest regret would be never having done the investigative journalism I truly longed for. In my career, I’ve always been one step away from its essence. I still wish to witness the end of the war in Ukraine, to see justice unfold in this world. But even so, I’m filled with gratitude—for the many good teachers and friends who have walked with me. They protected my passion and gave me the strength to keep going.

If I could leave just one final sentence, I would say to those I love:
“Please remember that I love you—just as you loved me. Thank you for appearing in my life. And if one day you’re struggling, say my name three times in your heart: Luna. I will hear you. I will bless you from the far shore, just as I once did from this one.”

Life has its end. But love and memory never fade.
The cracks and pain of this shore are the very foundation of meaning on the other.
May we always embrace life without fear, and face death without regret—
that, I believe, is what it truly means to live.