Retirement isn't actually an option for the escape artist. I've spent my whole life challenging fear, mocking death and thrilling my audience. To me, the escape, cheating death, it is a symbol, it is a powerful symbol that brings the witnesses closer to their relationship with death.

We all have a relationship with death. We maintain that death is something that happens to other people, or perhaps we have agreed that we too will die in some distant future. But death can happen today, maybe just few hours from now. We die accidentally, unexpectedly, and in those times we ask: "How did this happen?"

But it doesn't happen. I know that death is just an illusion. I have proven it over and over again, showing people not to fear death. For when we fear death we die again and again, every day. Therefor accept death, and live in accordance with the sanctity of life. Death is meaningless and pale, death fears life. Life is what we have, and let us not waste one precious second of it.

That is the message of my resurrection, my escape, my illusion. Escape artists know all of this and that is why they choose their stunts, to express a conquest over fear and to live again in the face of the machine of death. So, to understand that this is the sacred code of the escape artist it becomes easier to understand why there is no option for retirement.

Consider that the escape artist dies of old age in bed. What then becomes of the illusion? It cannot be believed that there was ever any danger, the stunt gets forgotten and the message is lost. For the next escape artist to come along and perform their feat, the memory that escape artists die in bed of old age bores the audience. The danger must be real. There is a legacy to uphold.

I stared at the letter in my mailbox and realized I had betrayed the ancient covenant. There were no consequences, just a reminder of what was due. To retire would be to steal not only the fame and fortune of future escape artists, but also to smite the belief my audiences had invested in me over so many years. I had told my truth, and if I did not offer proof, it would become a lie.

The letter was from Confrérie de la sorcellerie. It is unlikely that anyone who has not risked their life in the arts of magic has heard of them. They are real, a society of magicians, upholding a code and a reason for our art. I sighed, it was just a flyer from my first exhibition. It was a reminder of the only way out, the only honest way out. I had to make my lies, my illusions a reality.

It was time that I performed one last time, and this time I would not escape.

I shuddered, a strange new feeling of terror. It was time to pay my dues, show the world that I did it all for them. The magician is, in his heart, a man of the people. Self-sacrifice, human sacrifice, our way goes back to the most powerful devotions to the oldest gods. Time has made us the users of magic, and there are those who do not believe. I had sworn an oath long ago, to the Confrérie de la sorcellerie:

"I'd die to prove magic is real."

And that oath was not just words, it was what I believed. I stood at my mailbox, feeling the old age in my body. Life had given me the gifts of a man who avoided having a family, but got one anyway. I was the stepfather and the grandparent. I had neighbors who were my friends. I had a sweet pug named Page. I had years left in me, and I was enjoying every day I had since retirement.

I knew it was all just an illusion, pretending I was going to live this way. I felt my eyes watering as I looked at my grandchildren, as they sat in an inflatable pool on the front lawn. I amused them with simple tricks, just one each day. I knew so many tricks that I had a new one every time, but just one trick a day, that way I could never run out. They thought that I would never cease to show them new magic, but the truth was that I was nearly out of card tricks. Illusion is the most powerful kind of reality.

My hands trembled as I picked up the phone and called my agent, my publicist and my lawyers.

"Why are you doing this?" My wife asked me. She sensed something was wrong.

I had terrible sleep, plagued by my fears and my nightmares. Going into the box in the past did not frighten me. I was focused and relied on endless hours of practice and training. I always acted nervous, but really when I was alone in the box it was like being in my own world. I had complete control over everything that happened. The illusion was that I was in danger, that I was afraid.

For this final act, that would be reversed. Everyone would think there is no danger and they would doubt my fear. It was true magic, to turn an illusion into a deeper illusion. I had told my lawyer that everyone in the audience had to be carefully screened. They had to be people who had seen death already, so that they would recognize what they see, and be unharmed by it. I wanted none of my friends, family or relatives and I made sure none of them could be there.

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"Why, I don't understand. Please tell me." My wife begged. I said nothing to her other than that I loved her and I would see her again. I kissed her goodbye and saw the tears in her eyes. She is very sensitive, a latent psychic, and she had seen how afraid I was all the nights leading up to my departure. She knew she would never see me again, but she tried to put on a brave face, because she knew I was doing what I must do, what I was meant to do.

The flight to Vegas was part of the show. Freelance cameramen, news, paparazzi and fans were there waiting for me when I got off the plane, all in accordance with my publicity. I had stopped to put on makeup on the plane because I looked awful from my lack of sleep and the fear rising within me.

"Why are you coming out of retirement to go back into the Death Box?" A beautiful reporter asked me, and then she held a microphone in front of me. I looked into the camera and said:

"Because the show must go on." And I smiled.

In my mind I was already there, inside the box, doing nothing to escape. Death was coming for me and I was just sitting there. I'd picked the locks and then stopped. One of the catches was rigged to stay in place. When the moment arrived, my body would be crushed by twelve tons of concrete. Then the gasses underneath would ignite as the block was lifted away. I would be there, and the cremation of my corpse would leave only bones and ashes. An analysis of the smashed and scorched box would reveal that one of the catches hadn't released, it would still be locked.

When I was in my hotel room, preparing myself, I paced and felt the panic as I imagined what it would be like. I wanted to call the whole thing off, but I knew I couldn't do that. I looked into a mirror and said to my reflection,

"This is who you are and this was always going to be it. You knew that, all along. Do you want to die in a bed of old age? Or do you want to take your place in the history of magic?"

To my surprise, and possibly it was the fear or my nerves, but my reflection responded:

"You don't have to go through with it. This is a choice you are making. You can walk away at any time. You have a choice, to live or die."

"So the choice is mine? What about all my fans, the fans of future generations of escape artists? This is much bigger than me. And there is no choice, I am choosing how I go out, I am making the ultimate conquest over death. I could get on a plane and go home and die in a car accident on the way home from the airport. That would be meaningless, it would be my legacy, how I fled from Vegas and died anyway. This way I preserve the magic I have worked so hard to create."

"You are right, as always. Just don't come crying to me when you are trapped and there is no escape. Don't blame me, I tried to talk you out of it."

"I promise I won't blame you."

And then I realized I'd had that entire conversation with myself. I was cracking up. I had to be sure I could get into the box. I began rehearsing my final act.

I put on a DVD that showed my stunt. I'd sold these for twenty dollars each. I watched from the perspective of the audience and tried to imagine what it was going to be like when I never came out of the box and appeared on top of the rising slab of concrete with flames swirling below, burning the box I was last seen trapped inside. It looked really good, I forgot for a second how exactly I did it, as I looked at the end result.

There was a replica of the box that I was going to get into. I had it lying open on the floor in my hotel room. I felt the trepidation, imagining what it was going to be like to get into that box tomorrow. I was going to die, and I knew I was going to die. I knew the exact time and place, and I told myself I should feel honored since few know when their life is about to end.

I imagined the horror of realizing in those final moments that it was all going to be over. All my mental discipline and focus were to be put to one final test. Would I step into that box? Once I was inside I would never come out again.

I practiced, pretending I was there. It got harder and harder each time I did it. Late into the night, I kept trying and finally I couldn't make myself do it. The reality had defeated the illusion. I finally couldn't lie to myself, I wanted to live. I couldn't go through with it.

I tried to write an account of what I was doing, why I was doing it and how I made myself go through with it. I wrote until I got to the part where I had written that I was writing an account, and felt amused by the recursion. The thing I like the most about myself is my sense of irony, my humor. I'm a pretty funny guy, full of charm, and people are genuinely touched by my attention because I am not superficial. When I tell someone I like them, it is true. Never mind the fact that I like everyone I meet, it's just who I am, as a person.

I'm a people person, a crowd pleaser. I must say that as happy as you are to see me, I am even happier to see you. It means the whole world to me, to see you there watching, anticipating, hoping I somehow survive. You don't mind that I am putting myself in danger to entertain you, somehow it validates your experiences in the world, it is a gift, and you take it with you in your heart. That is why I do it, and that doesn't belong to me, it belongs to everyone. It is magic, baby, just a little bit, but that's what it is.

I am not going to be the magician who abandoned his own show because he was too afraid. But that's how afraid I was. I got a phone call and there was nobody speaking. I knew they were listening and I said, in the darkness, the neon glow:

"I am not ready. Make it stop, take this away from me. Don't make me go there and do this."

Then they hung up. I started to cry, because the words I'd spoke were true, but they were not what I believed in. I didn't want to leave the world behind, but it was going to happen no matter what, sooner or later. I trembled as I got out of bed and started to put on my suit.

I finished the final thoughts I'd started writing, with a golden envelope, addressed to Confrérie de la sorcellerie and signed by me.

I looked good in my stage attire. I nodded to myself, giving the magician's knowing glare. I looked mysterious and otherworldly and handsome. I knew it was time for my final act.

Always believe.