It's a curious feeling.
It seems, more often than not, I've been dying in my recent dreams.
And it's not a case of dying and waking up, nor is it a case of dying and beginning another dream. I have to weather out the agony of whatever caused me to die. I have to suffer through it, feel the pain, and release my life...
And end up in the everafter.
Which is so enchantingly beautiful.
And the things I do there, the people I meet there, they're all so beautiful. It makes me want to die so I go back. Every night, I die again in another horrific fashion, and the moments before death are poetry and theatre intertwined in an orgasmic symphony of lights. The second just before you let go of living-- well after you've stopped breathing or your head has been disconnected from your shoulders-- that second is a golden cloud with the purest of white lights shining from the center. The light was always there, you just never saw access or the need to access it while you were stapled to your mortal form. The last staple gets unbent from the other end and pops out, and you fling yourself (or are you being flung?) into the sky behind you while simultaneously gliding forward into the cloud.
It's like an orgasm for the soul.
The part I dread the most is reincarnation.
In the chances that I softly float downward to my feet in an everafter, I only have myself and the confusion accompanied by the tragedy of my mortal end to go by. My memories are there, but I understand that the tape has stopped playing. It'll be okay where I'm going, even if it wasn't okay where from whence I came.
But reincarnating, FUCK that. Sometimes, it'll just happen, you won't even get a breather. You only get the eternity of a nanosecond to think DAMN IT, ALL THAT WORK TO WASTE because you know once the next life begins you'll forget everything important that wanted to badly never of which to let go. How to speak, how to do math, how not to love, and how to see through people's bullshit. You curse the empire you built that abandoned you. Those words echo into darkness during the coma of your new life's opening and shit, you're awake, you're in a hospital, coming out of a woman, and it's all gone. Language is no longer language. All the scrolls say FOOBIE BLETCH.
Nothing motivates me more to live, now, than the idea of living again. If I die, and stay dead, then my last chance doesn't seem that futile. If I die, and death is about to pass me over, it hits me square in the chest: I'll have to do it all again from scratch, for better or for worse. That, my friends, is hell.
Here I go again, off to my sweet nightmares, to wish that I wish my life goodbye. It probably isn't healthy to be so addicted to one's own death.
And it's not a case of dying and waking up, nor is it a case of dying and beginning another dream. I have to weather out the agony of whatever caused me to die. I have to suffer through it, feel the pain, and release my life...
And end up in the everafter.
Which is so enchantingly beautiful.
And the things I do there, the people I meet there, they're all so beautiful. It makes me want to die so I go back. Every night, I die again in another horrific fashion, and the moments before death are poetry and theatre intertwined in an orgasmic symphony of lights. The second just before you let go of living-- well after you've stopped breathing or your head has been disconnected from your shoulders-- that second is a golden cloud with the purest of white lights shining from the center. The light was always there, you just never saw access or the need to access it while you were stapled to your mortal form. The last staple gets unbent from the other end and pops out, and you fling yourself (or are you being flung?) into the sky behind you while simultaneously gliding forward into the cloud.
It's like an orgasm for the soul.
The part I dread the most is reincarnation.
In the chances that I softly float downward to my feet in an everafter, I only have myself and the confusion accompanied by the tragedy of my mortal end to go by. My memories are there, but I understand that the tape has stopped playing. It'll be okay where I'm going, even if it wasn't okay where from whence I came.
But reincarnating, FUCK that. Sometimes, it'll just happen, you won't even get a breather. You only get the eternity of a nanosecond to think DAMN IT, ALL THAT WORK TO WASTE because you know once the next life begins you'll forget everything important that wanted to badly never of which to let go. How to speak, how to do math, how not to love, and how to see through people's bullshit. You curse the empire you built that abandoned you. Those words echo into darkness during the coma of your new life's opening and shit, you're awake, you're in a hospital, coming out of a woman, and it's all gone. Language is no longer language. All the scrolls say FOOBIE BLETCH.
Nothing motivates me more to live, now, than the idea of living again. If I die, and stay dead, then my last chance doesn't seem that futile. If I die, and death is about to pass me over, it hits me square in the chest: I'll have to do it all again from scratch, for better or for worse. That, my friends, is hell.
Here I go again, off to my sweet nightmares, to wish that I wish my life goodbye. It probably isn't healthy to be so addicted to one's own death.