I woke up a little while ago. Nothings changed really, its still the same dark damp place I’ve been in for… oh I forget. Time passes so quietly here you almost can’t hear him pass, sometimes you forget about him completely until… yes until something forces you to remember him. Until the only thing that breaks this unwilling, mute serenity gets to you. The sound of the dead, the newly dead like you.
We’ve learned silence in this place. This prison of darkness and earth. This our final resting place. Ironic really, they think you die and go to a place with bright lights and wait until the end of eternity, the end of the world and the circle of rebirth starts again. BULLSHIT.
They say their novenas, mark your death with such pomp and ceremony, light candles, hold vigils pray for your soul, give you to god, to the earth that begot you and leave, leave you to rest in peace. Please.
You don’t rest here. There is no sojourn, its almost like life except you have none of the quaint old things to reassure you. God, philosophy, a good book, weed, a beer… oh talking about it doesn’t help. The only thing we have here is sleep. Sleep and silence. And you, you broke my silence and you woke me up… so now that I’m that I’m talking I suggest that you pipe down and listen to me.
Okay you’re dead. You know that now. You’ve known since you heard the earth plod on the coffin they put you in. that’s when you woke up. You turned around… and then it hit you. You were dead. Dead as a doorknob. Suddenly you remembered everything how you died, what you’ve lost, and you vague spirituality and the gods you periodically turned to in life became your focus.
And you prayed, and prayed and prayed and…hmm you’re still praying. That’s what woke me up. You shouted “GOD SAVE ME”. Save you? From what? You. Are. Dead. Its irreversible. You are here until the next phase.
And let me tell you God doesn’t live here. He doesn’t even know we exist in my humble warped opinion. The only things around here that are alive are the bugs. The maggots that now inhabit us. That feed on our rotting decaying filth. The tiny little feet that crisscross what would have been our skins. Except we can’t feel them we’re dead. We just know they’re there.
Knowing. Knowledge. Ethereal, absolute. That’s all we have here knowledge. We know so much. We’ve answered the question that dodged our existence as living beings. We’ve solved the riddle. We know death.
And now so do you.
Wasted knowledge. Gift of the grave. It’s black and grey. There’s a postcard sent from heaven it says make the best of never never. You learn your time alive was borrowed, and now that you’re buried with your sorrow you try to remember to forget.
How did you die I wonder. The way you died it’s really important down here. It’s like the only thing that’s important down here. It’s the only thing that remains in your head of life, living above ground.
You forget. Just as you couldn’t remember before being born in life, in death you cannot remember before being dead. Not really. The newly dead though they can, cannot tell. The newly dead tell no tales. You cannot speak to us. Your words like pain, fear, love, nostalgia. They have lost all meaning for us. We know sleep, and muted scents. We understand decay, the symbiotic balance our bodies are a part of. But we cannot remember life.
You’d think that you could remember. If only it were that easy. See soon you will become resigned. You will learn how to live down here. How to talk, how to cope, how to sleep, dream, cry, love, from the confines of your deep dark grave. You’re home until, well until whenever.
Until one day you do not think about before, about life. Suddenly you hate it. Here you can sleep and it isn’t sloth. Here there are no class distinctions, we all rot away. And you wonder what it was you so desperately wanted to live for. No rules. No zealots. Nothing.
Sometimes if you are lucky life takes root in the earth above you. And as the roots of whatever it is move closer to you, you are assailed by the over life. You can ‘feel’ the sun. Almost ‘smell’ the air. And then it quickly turns into slow torture. You are supposed to be able to do something. But your brain has stopped its decayed it’s gone its mush. And then you hate death all over again. Not because you fear it, but because you’ve lived it.
How did you die I wonder.
I can’t remember how i died. I do not remember dying. Oddly I remember much about life some sort of residue in my brain from too much skunk, one too many wild parties. But I cannot remember dying.
Did I ever live? I remember almost dying. Totally wiped out. Dead drunk on vodka. Stoned out of my mind on skunk. On a road in the middle of nowhere in a car on this road. I remember thinking, if I stayed in the car I would die on that road and I would be stuck for all eternity, on that road drunk and stoned never really going anywhere.
Shit! If I knew then what I know now I would have had another reefer. How did you die?
Its almost like if I knew how I died I could tell what happens after. Ah yes. Did you think this was it? Think again. There’s someplace else, there has to be at least. After a while the dead go silent. And you can’t hear them any more. No one knows what happens after, another fucking mystery, something new to look forward to. You’d think we’d be through enough of this bullshit, but no there’s more.
There’s always more. There’s always another trip, another test well I’ve had it. I had it in life that I can remember. And now I’ve had it here.
You’ll find out soon enough.
How did I die?
Sometimes I think I am not dead and then I’m only dreaming and I’m sleeping and then I wake up and I am dead and I cannot remember what I was dreaming. I need something. I’m fading away I can feel it. Fading.
Most of me is gone. Wonder what year it is. What year is it newbie? Feels like I’ve been dead for eons. What time is it? What new games has man invented? What new follies does he have on his conscience? What new god’s have they unearthed? What new truths have they aligned themselves to?
Anything to help old man time on his way. Anything to cheat death.
Death. How did I die?
How does that grim reaper look, feel, does he even exist?
How did I die? It’s suddenly very important. Try remember always how you died it’s important. It’s important when you move on. I’m fading away. I can feel it. There is very little of me left. I’m fading. How did I die?
Remember. There is something I should know I almost know what’s coming and I’m feeling something I have not felt in too long a time. Fear.
I’m scared. More borrowed time. Are you getting this rook borrowed time. It’s not clear. I cannot think. Fading. The walls are fading they are not here. Can you here me.
I’m leaving. Fading.
I forgot. You cannot hear me. You are still yelling. You cannot hear me. I wasn’t that clever. I’m fading. Fading, the last of me is going. The only remaining tie to my life. The white bone that housed me is turned to dust, finally going slowly.
Slowly. Fading. Gone. I couldn’t be that clever.
How did I die?
