I sunk on this couch into my sorrow and I literally just died. And of course, I had to attend my own funeral. There was one lone unrecognizable face sitting in the audience as I recited my own eulogy, which no one could hear.I’m glad I wasn’t alive for this. How mortifying. Had anyone rsvp’d?I picture my alive self giving this great speech to this audience of one, clearing my throat at all the right moments, the rehearsed hand gestures: “my life was a battle of ego and will of demons and god struggling inside me unto death.”Who was this guy? I’ve definitely never seen him before.The room gave off a strange warmth, the dim red light of chandeliers, and compelling presence of the piano resonating lingering melodies through the air.This might be a nice place to haunt.
I swooshed to the sandwich spread at the bar with a weightlessness and ease that clashed with the heaviness of my soul—an unrecognizable feeling of being held down while floating. In the impermanence of dying, I felt suddenly stuck. And,who for the love of Christ put out tea! Anyone who's ever KNOWN me knows I’m a coffee drinker! Black, no sugar.The tea boiled over as I fumed but the man did not seem to notice.
Outside the sunlight seeped through me casting imperceptible shadows on the sidewalk. People huffed along in a rush to end or start or continue their day. For the life of me (or death of me rather) all I could think about was getting back on that couch. How decadent it felt to sulk in such sorrow. I suppose that’s what I miss the most, the existential dread that let me feel alive.