What Fresh Hell
The feeling comes as a wave of pain, crashing over and around and through. It's the desperate feeling of every fiber of my being clawing for air, grasping for life. My mouth opens to scream but I can't. I know I'm dying and while I shouldn't be afraid the fear consumes me. It hurts too much for too long. It's unending, eternal. Every cell is collapsing like a crumbling ten story building and I am crushed beneath each one. A hundred billion deaths coming not all at once but slow, agonizingly slow. From every strand of hair to every nail bed; every millimeter of muscle and bone; every ounce of every organ, even the empty space in between. I am pummeled by every one, begging for it to be over, begging for my brain to give out, begging for the loss of consciousness that would give me some type of relief. My soul fights against it even though there's no escape. I want to give up, give in, let it happen and slip off. But life isn't passive, it doesn't give up just because you want it to. It innately hates and despises the concept of death and it fights, and for it to fight you must be aware, for it's the antithesis of death, the arch nemesis, the light opposing the dark. It's a battle and I can't escape it until it's over, until every last molecule is extinguished, every heartbeat silenced, every electrical impulse shut down. My death does not come quietly.
There is a moment as the last breath of life is forced out of my body where I feel peace. It is death showing me that life wasn't worth it, that the struggle was unnecessary because isn't this so much better? I can see my family, my friends, everyone I've ever loved and cared about. Some of them are dead and some of them are alive but I don't know the difference, because death doesn't know what life looks like or feels like. Death paints pictures of vistas and landscapes it has never seen - images that it is inherently incapable of knowing or understanding. It is like a recluse trapped in a cave trying to capture a sunrise - that he has never seen - over an ocean - that he has only heard stories of. How can you know the way the light plays off the waves when you have seen neither brilliant sun or crashing water? In this moment death plays at life and I realize that death wants life; death hates life because it cannot know life. When God separated out one from the other at the creation of the universe death got the raw end of the deal. I don't know how long this moment of my death lasts, how long the living have been living while I get this image, but as I start to feel the pain again it slips away, dragged out of my vision as it all happens again.
It is fire and tearing; instead of being crushed by the weight of destruction I am torn apart by the explosions of life. I go from existing in nothingness- as a nameless faceless observer of a single image- to being aware of every part of me being created and pushed back into the universe. My consciousness comes back first and life whispers to it, "The pain will be worth it, you will be alive again." And so I endure because the memory returns and I want it back, I rip myself open and let it pour into me. It is excruciating pain that I gladly accept because I remember that moment in death, that picture of people I suddenly ache to see, but in the vividness that only life can create. I struggle and push and again I want to scream because it is too much and death, desperate to have me back, murmuring "Life is doing this to you. Life is causing you this pain. You should come back to me; what did I ever do to you but give you peace, and what did life do but fight against it and make you suffer?" But the words go away as the pain yells so loudly I feel it in every part of me. Life does not come quietly.
This process comes to me in nightmares. The memory then falls into my consciousness while I'm awake and I'm crippled. Sometimes are easier than others, but it is never quick. It always lingers just too long. My joints lock, my muscles ache. My eyes are wide open and and it is terrifyingly real. Death has placed it's hand on my heart and curled up in my mind. It reminds me of the struggle and the pain and it's all there again. I can feel it happening over and over and over. I relive it and it strikes fear in me until I force the memory out of my head. When it leaves me I'm gasping for air, only then realizing the breath I'd been holding. Time passes, years pass, and I learn more easily to fight these moments. They happen less and less frequently. In the seconds after I wonder if the happy moments will ever fully overshadow the pain. But that's the thing- wondering means it will never leave. It will always have a hold on me.
When it comes again I beg that it's just another dream. But the scene is different, the view of my surroundings is distinct and not the same. I am dying again and I struggle against it. I fight and fight and fight and it makes everything worse. Every so often I gain a foothold and I can see myself winning; I can see myself living and breathing and I have hope. But the first time I never consciously fought it. I'd given in and let the battle of life and death happen around me, to me. It was excruciating then. Struggling against it is unbearable because every time I try the rebound is harder, stronger. I have been chosen to die again and once you have that mark there's no battle in the world that can keep it from happening. Death has staked it's claim and I am dead; I am dying; I am leaving my body. With crushing force I am- yet again- being expelled. I want to cry, but I am in too much pain. I want to scream, but the agony keeps me frozen. Somewhere I remember that it will eventually be over, but I don't know how long it will take. It is eternity, for all I can see. I stop fighting. I give in and hope- somehow I still can hope- that it will be quicker; that knowing the process and knowing the pain will make it easier. But it still hurts beyond measure. Finally, finally it ends and again I have the image of the people I love. They are blurry and out of focus but I have peace and I don't care. I can't care. I would exist in this forever because there is no pain and the realism of this existence doesn't matter. It is calm and still.
The memory of getting to this point makes me cling to it. But as soon as I am aware of having memory it has begun again; life is pushing though me and I am pain. I am not a body or a soul. I am agony; I am suffering; I am not just pain but immeasurable pain. It makes up the entirety of my existence and I feel like that is all I will ever be. Death clings harder this time, so life fights harder. They do not whisper this time. They shout and yell; death screaming "Stay, stay, why would you want this again?" Life countering, "You can hold and touch and love them again, come with me!" But I don't have a choice. It happens to me regardless of my wishes. Ripping, tearing, pushing, pulling, stretching. It all hurts and I want to weep for the lack of control I have over it. My first breath is a scream.
I am alive again, but the memory of a second death haunts me even more than it did before. Where the first time I would seize in fear, now I fight against it. I am violent and angry and I beg for it to leave me. I punch walls and break chairs but my bones crack and my skin is punctured with splinters and it only reminds me of that pain. It is a cycle I struggle to free myself from. I meditate and I pray. I sing to drown out the silent screams of death's memory. There is succor for a moment, an hour, a day, a week. But it returns. It always returns. I throw myself into work and friends and family. I force myself to remember joys when, instinctively, I remember suffering. Over and over. I fight it and tell myself one day, one day I will realize I haven't thought of it in so long I won't remember how long it's been. But that hope walks hand in hand with the fear. Like life and death they coexist together and I know it will always be with me. I have felt it and it has etched it's mark on every ounce and fiber of my body and my being.
It will come again, because it has to, because I am mortal, because life cannot exist without death. I have been caught on their battle ground enough times to know that they are both, inherently, independently peaceful. But it is in their nature to fight, and they will bring war to my body and soul. Until then it is a shadow that follows me, pricking my mind so I never forget that I have died. And died. And it will come for me, one day, and then it will not just be memory.
And for as much as life is beautiful and I relish in living it, when that day comes, I hope that this time, once it is over, death will stay.
There is a moment as the last breath of life is forced out of my body where I feel peace. It is death showing me that life wasn't worth it, that the struggle was unnecessary because isn't this so much better? I can see my family, my friends, everyone I've ever loved and cared about. Some of them are dead and some of them are alive but I don't know the difference, because death doesn't know what life looks like or feels like. Death paints pictures of vistas and landscapes it has never seen - images that it is inherently incapable of knowing or understanding. It is like a recluse trapped in a cave trying to capture a sunrise - that he has never seen - over an ocean - that he has only heard stories of. How can you know the way the light plays off the waves when you have seen neither brilliant sun or crashing water? In this moment death plays at life and I realize that death wants life; death hates life because it cannot know life. When God separated out one from the other at the creation of the universe death got the raw end of the deal. I don't know how long this moment of my death lasts, how long the living have been living while I get this image, but as I start to feel the pain again it slips away, dragged out of my vision as it all happens again.
It is fire and tearing; instead of being crushed by the weight of destruction I am torn apart by the explosions of life. I go from existing in nothingness- as a nameless faceless observer of a single image- to being aware of every part of me being created and pushed back into the universe. My consciousness comes back first and life whispers to it, "The pain will be worth it, you will be alive again." And so I endure because the memory returns and I want it back, I rip myself open and let it pour into me. It is excruciating pain that I gladly accept because I remember that moment in death, that picture of people I suddenly ache to see, but in the vividness that only life can create. I struggle and push and again I want to scream because it is too much and death, desperate to have me back, murmuring "Life is doing this to you. Life is causing you this pain. You should come back to me; what did I ever do to you but give you peace, and what did life do but fight against it and make you suffer?" But the words go away as the pain yells so loudly I feel it in every part of me. Life does not come quietly.
This process comes to me in nightmares. The memory then falls into my consciousness while I'm awake and I'm crippled. Sometimes are easier than others, but it is never quick. It always lingers just too long. My joints lock, my muscles ache. My eyes are wide open and and it is terrifyingly real. Death has placed it's hand on my heart and curled up in my mind. It reminds me of the struggle and the pain and it's all there again. I can feel it happening over and over and over. I relive it and it strikes fear in me until I force the memory out of my head. When it leaves me I'm gasping for air, only then realizing the breath I'd been holding. Time passes, years pass, and I learn more easily to fight these moments. They happen less and less frequently. In the seconds after I wonder if the happy moments will ever fully overshadow the pain. But that's the thing- wondering means it will never leave. It will always have a hold on me.
When it comes again I beg that it's just another dream. But the scene is different, the view of my surroundings is distinct and not the same. I am dying again and I struggle against it. I fight and fight and fight and it makes everything worse. Every so often I gain a foothold and I can see myself winning; I can see myself living and breathing and I have hope. But the first time I never consciously fought it. I'd given in and let the battle of life and death happen around me, to me. It was excruciating then. Struggling against it is unbearable because every time I try the rebound is harder, stronger. I have been chosen to die again and once you have that mark there's no battle in the world that can keep it from happening. Death has staked it's claim and I am dead; I am dying; I am leaving my body. With crushing force I am- yet again- being expelled. I want to cry, but I am in too much pain. I want to scream, but the agony keeps me frozen. Somewhere I remember that it will eventually be over, but I don't know how long it will take. It is eternity, for all I can see. I stop fighting. I give in and hope- somehow I still can hope- that it will be quicker; that knowing the process and knowing the pain will make it easier. But it still hurts beyond measure. Finally, finally it ends and again I have the image of the people I love. They are blurry and out of focus but I have peace and I don't care. I can't care. I would exist in this forever because there is no pain and the realism of this existence doesn't matter. It is calm and still.
The memory of getting to this point makes me cling to it. But as soon as I am aware of having memory it has begun again; life is pushing though me and I am pain. I am not a body or a soul. I am agony; I am suffering; I am not just pain but immeasurable pain. It makes up the entirety of my existence and I feel like that is all I will ever be. Death clings harder this time, so life fights harder. They do not whisper this time. They shout and yell; death screaming "Stay, stay, why would you want this again?" Life countering, "You can hold and touch and love them again, come with me!" But I don't have a choice. It happens to me regardless of my wishes. Ripping, tearing, pushing, pulling, stretching. It all hurts and I want to weep for the lack of control I have over it. My first breath is a scream.
I am alive again, but the memory of a second death haunts me even more than it did before. Where the first time I would seize in fear, now I fight against it. I am violent and angry and I beg for it to leave me. I punch walls and break chairs but my bones crack and my skin is punctured with splinters and it only reminds me of that pain. It is a cycle I struggle to free myself from. I meditate and I pray. I sing to drown out the silent screams of death's memory. There is succor for a moment, an hour, a day, a week. But it returns. It always returns. I throw myself into work and friends and family. I force myself to remember joys when, instinctively, I remember suffering. Over and over. I fight it and tell myself one day, one day I will realize I haven't thought of it in so long I won't remember how long it's been. But that hope walks hand in hand with the fear. Like life and death they coexist together and I know it will always be with me. I have felt it and it has etched it's mark on every ounce and fiber of my body and my being.
It will come again, because it has to, because I am mortal, because life cannot exist without death. I have been caught on their battle ground enough times to know that they are both, inherently, independently peaceful. But it is in their nature to fight, and they will bring war to my body and soul. Until then it is a shadow that follows me, pricking my mind so I never forget that I have died. And died. And it will come for me, one day, and then it will not just be memory.
And for as much as life is beautiful and I relish in living it, when that day comes, I hope that this time, once it is over, death will stay.