(Unbearable, from Untitled Work-In-Progress, 2011)
The closer to death, the closer I am to God. I cry out, I hope something can hear me. The ground behind my feet meet an edge, over the edge is a steep cliff wall, and beyond that is an endless darkness; this is where all my doubts laid dorment. I can't believe this is it. It being the end. The end being the be-end of be-ends, this.is.the.end (my.only.friend). All the words to follow are struggles to realize the fact that my existence, of all my years, all the experiences; memories, feelings, everything that is everything that I know, knew, and was going to know ends right before me. All my words, nothing matters, all my strength, all my will, nothing. at. all. The crumbly crumbles of what was once, what is not now, what is going, going, gone, is done, undone, exploding, imploding, the dust that settles pops into smoke, that smoke then sets to fire, the ashes fall to the ground and water is poured over them and the steam that is released evaporates, the room is then sealed and locked, forever to be closed, the building the room is in is then closed, and it is professionally demolished, exploding into itself and afterwards the wreckage of the sight is left untouched for a long time, nature returns to this site, and many years pass, trees start to grow, small animals then larger animals, deers and such start to roam these grounds, there is a peace in the air, the wind blows through the leaves and sing a song, the song calls, it warns, it cries, something once lived here, once is repeated endlessly forever until the wind dies down, and a heavy and painfully quiet silence covers the land.
At some point I drift off, I lose my grip from my hands, they (my hands) leave me. I lose my toes then my feet. I feel my legs peel off from their earthly flesh, and my core then lifts, my buttock holds on like it has always has, but soon even that is free from the ground. I start lifting above my body, and for the first time in my life I look at myself and see someone that is not me. I try waving but realize I am waving to a lifeless body. It is in situations like this I don't know how to react, how do we say goodbye. My thought is interrupted, I walk, or rather, hover in the opposite direction. I am drawn to this path I take, I feel safe, warm, warmer, and I feel a supreme sense of lightness.
It is ok now. Yes. I am fine now. Yes. When the hole of my life is filled, when the well of who I was is buried, if wells could be buried, the ground is left unsettled, with a soreness of something being off, wrongfully placed there. I lay a patch of grass over it to hide it, the grass looks greener to the grass around it. I pull out a 40oz from my bag, I insert it into a specially made stand with a clamp on the end. This clamp holds a bottle on a 45 degree angle, and as I insert my drink it pours immediately to the grounds where my life is buried. The tomb reads, "Smell You Later", I can't believe we went through with this (whispers a, "good grief charlie brown" to myself).
A flash hits my eyes, something so incomplete from my past life hits me at a force like a bullet the size of an apple hitting me in the gut. It doesn't kill me, it doesn't even go through me, it knocks the air out of me, I kiss the ground and leave my hovering grace like I never had it to begin with. One single thought. My body starts to sink, the freshly laid dirt gives to my spirit like water. I reach a solid object, I feel around it, it is my former self, the part of me once alive.
I am put myself back together, or rather a mysterious force does so for me, as I am carried like a child in his mother's arms. Back to life, after we said goodbye, after I shook hands with death, and agreed to be the unliving.
I wake up in a room I don't remember ever being in. In my mouth is the taste of something familiar, the very thought is as fragile as holding the wing of a butterfly, if I breath too hard the dust will leave it and it will disappear before me. I warm myself up with pie, I feel like fighting again. I feel. Again. Ah, Eureka!
(The thought comes to me, the story ends)
The story ends.
(or does it...)