Life Bites Hard And Then You Die
Loneliness is a disease that kills.
Alone is a curse that haunts.
I am looking down at my body after it choked out my last breathe. The air feels solid whilst I feel strangely light as I float above. The mass of bone and organic tissue, that lump of flesh left on the hospital bed that was once me now seems alien. So who or what am I now? My atomic self? Or am I just a figment of my own imagination; synapses still firing in a brain that doesn’t know it is dead yet?
Whatever, I guess this is the after-life, I muse.
But where is the tunnel of light, where are my angels, my so called dearly departed come to guide me home though? I feel conned, I just didn’t expect to have to face this alone. I thought I would merge with the cosmos and wouldn’t feel seperate from everything and everyone anymore. I suppose it is bizzarely ironic that I expected to be more connected with life after dying rather than when I was alive.
Yet I am drawn to those I can no longer speak to. I can’t help wishing I could tell those sobbing, shocked people from the gruesomeness of my demise there is no point crying. I don’t feel dead, just somewhere different. A different dimension perhaps? It was as if I was watching the scene of my departure from life through a television. I was no longer in there with my lifeless body and surrounding hospital staff and relatives but on the other side.
Yes, I am certain I am no longer the main character in the TV show called ”Welcome To Physical & Emotional Pain For Life”. For once, I am not inhabiting a wracked body and crushed heart that were both riddled and overtaken with incurable suffering. Yet, here I am wishing I could have done life differently; I am abashed at my mournfulness. I am taken aback in the fact that if I could somehow get back into my body, even if I had to put up with pain all over again, I would. I miss my life already. I miss my family, my friends. The images on the TV screen of the people I have left are shrinking and moving away from me. I have no way to grab hold of them. I yearn for the love and connection between us that made it all so real. I guess I didn’t realise how much of it I had. Until now, when it is all gone.
Oh, why did I think it was so hard to live?
Give me back the stress of paying bills with no money, the pain of feeling love and then loss, the hardship of a weariness of body and despair in spirit. Anything but this nothingness. I would even beg, but to who? Or what? So far all I have discovered about the mystery of death is a place where gravity does not exist for me any longer. Apart from that I recognise nothing; space is blank around me, life after death is still unknown and so far very strange. And very isolating.
My name, Abigail, is supposed to mean joy. If true, I admit I did not always live up to my name when I was alive. In fact I was pretty darn miserable, lonely and disappointed. Ironically, even dead I am the same. Death is not offering me solace from this inescapable fact, nor is it providing any joy. Perhaps this is my curse, or my karma. Or the imprint of my earthly way of being where it will now echo in the afterlife, whilst I continue to experience suffering for the whole of eternity. Oh, the horror. I can not think of a worse hell. A never-ending punishment for a life lived with no happiness, even in the after-world? Just my luck. The thought of my misery still continuing once I’m dead - and it being forever - is making me angry.
Geez, talk about being ripped off. Hey, I want a refund! Put me back damn it. I have paid with my life for this? This is what I get?
I am trying to say it out loud but I have no voice, no mouth to speak with only a mind to scream silently inside of a heavy blanket of darkness. If I were to have a fist I would be shaking it at the deceiving monster I was now calling Death.
“You’re not alone you know”, says a voice out of nowhere. It shocks me hearing someone talk. The sound is resoundingly loud from everywhere at once, coming at me from all directions and also from inside me.
Wierd, I still feel I have an inside and an outside.
I can still see nothing. I can not even see what I am now. I have no limbs or body to examine, I can only wonder what form I would find if there was such thing as a mirror in this place.
I wonder if the voice is just another part of my brain, like hearing other voices in my own mind, because there is definitely nothing and nobody here. I probably just imagined it.
Without warning space around me suddenly morphs into a dark dungeon and I experience falling hard to fit into a body again. The heaviness of being a mass of particles is once again mine. But I am chained and can not move. I look down and I am naked.
Lawd, this can only be a bad dream.
All of me is hanging out there, the body parts I am most ashamed of. The wobbly bits, the hairy bits, the ugly bits and all the scars and wrinkles. Being exposed and vulnerable is a nightmare I just hope I will wake up from being thankful it isn’t real.
Wake up! Abigail, wake up.
I start to chant in my mind, it’s all in your mind, think positive. It’s not real. It is an illusion, just a dream. I repeat it over and over to program myself. I expect to open my eyes and see something different. It’s logical. If this dirty dungeon can suddenly appear out of nowhere then why not something pleasant? An imaginative picture of myself gleefully myself rubbing my hands together with an evil laugh appears on the cinema screen in my head, saying “Mwuhaha, the power of transmutation and transformation is finally mine.”
All right, I know I am kidding myself chanting this wish in my imagination. Praying will be useless also I’m sure. What is the point of a prayer to a benevolent god I know for sure doesn’t exist? Especially now. I am dead after all and there is no sign of a heaven here. Unless I’m in hell? Yep that would be right, I mutter to myself. After all, there is no one else here, so who else can I talk to?
The dungeon is disgusting as the sensation of smell and sight returns to me. Gross. I slowly shake my head in despair. Perhaps I am just the doomed sinner like the awful preachers used to say I was. This is the very reason why I never went back to church and I will never regret that choice. Damn them anyway for trying to scare me into obedience to their creed of fearful tyranny of a vengeful bearded white male god. Curse you all I say. But if this is what I am to meet now, I will face it with the bravado of righteousness. I vow to never believe that rubbish to be true.
Well, fancy that. I’m in a borrowed body surprise surprise I still feel like myself. I still think the same thoughts, I still have all the traits of my personality; who I am is unaltered it seems. After all, what am I if not all my ideas that make me the person I think I am? It appears that won’t ever change. Not even when what I think should no longer matter if I am dead. I think I still exist, I am just in a different realm.
Okay, I’m getting really confused. Shut the heck up Abigail, stop all this mind babble that doesn’t make any sense. Sighing in resignation, I realise what it really means is that I am never able to escape, well um, me. I don’t know what to call my existence now. Even though my body is dead I am certain my earthly identity is intact. I hang my head and wish I could cry in this darn prison cell. But it seems that is a pleasure known only in existing for real. How strange to think tears as a gift of being alive and having a heart that cares. I could have enjoyed crying a whole lot more.