Death of a Person

We are all dying. Our days are numbered. Yours, mine. There will come a time when we will cease to exist.

My body will stop working; the cells and tissue that make up my being will give up. Blood will stop pumping, pores and sweat glands will run dry. Every single muscle that lies beneath my skin will come to rest, never to flex again. Marrow will seep from my bones, leaving them desolate and fragile. Joints will separate, tendons will go limp. The muscle that pumps in my chest will slow to a stop, like a battery running out of acid. My lungs can finally rest after a lifetime of ceaselessly drawing in and pushing out air. Organs will shrivel into pruny, useless masses. The electrical and chemical impulses that dominate brain functions will sizzle away into nothingness, the soft squishy tissue calcifying, no longer bothering to tell the rest of my body what to do in order to survive.

All of my scars and calluses, the titles of the chapters of my life, will mean nothing. My voice will be locked away, into a treasure chest that has no key. My dreams will sink into a deep abyss, never to be wakened or realized again. Every step I’ve taken on this planet will be forgotten, every whisper that has escaped my lips will only drift on the winds of both summer rains and hurricanes.

My body will go somewhere, I suppose, something people will call an “eternal resting place.” But there is no such thing, really. Graveyards are torn up all the time to make new space for new dead, the plots of members of families long gone not as important as that of the daughter a middle-aged mother must bury. Even urns might get passed around a family, until the last family member has a vast collection of them, and then they die, too. So, where will my body wind up? Where will this empty bag of bones, this floppy sack of dead weight, this collection of useless body parts finally settle?

We are all dying. Every day could very well be our last.

Usually, there is still so much to accomplish, so much to see. There are more experiences to ensnare in the weak and flimsy grip that human memory provides. There is always more to suffer through and learn from. There is still so much World left to discover. But when it comes down to it, none of that will matter. At the end, nothing matters.

Sometimes I welcome the reprieve with open arms. 

..........

There is a heavy lump that has settled into my chest. It is always suspended there, no matter how many times I cough to try and release it. Sometimes it chills me to the bone; other times it burns hotter than the fires of hell. For the most part, it hides. But very subtly, it shows itself. It manifests. It is every beautiful scar I’ve given myself. It is all the brutal looking ones that started as paper cuts or animal scratches (the ones I always make worse). It is the pair of bags under my eyes I see when I catch my reflection. It is the somber, brooding mood I always find myself in. It is the fact that living alone has become difficult.

I am so tired of saying “I’m fine.” I’m on the verge of mental breakdown all the time, but the wonderful thing about people is (for the most part) they’re not obligated to care. What’s more, anyone not capable of controlling their emotions at work (aka “acting normal”) is considered weak, sometimes even a spectacle, something to stare at. I desperately need a shoulder to cry on, both figuratively and literally. Someone who will listen without judging me or my feelings. As I write that, I realize how pathetically lonely it makes me sound. How can I be so lonely? That in itself is hard enough to wrap my head around, let alone naming justifications. I mean, it’s not for lack of company. I suppose there are two kinds of loneliness, those being of the physical and mental sorts (of course, this is probably not news to philosophers, mental doctors, and the like, but it’s news to me). Like I say, physically, I’m not in need of company. There are always people around. I work with people around at any one given time. There’s always someone home. Even my car rides! I only drive myself to and from work once or twice a week. But in my head, I am constantly feeling pressured to just keep my thoughts to myself, to shut up, because no one wants to hear my problems. I suppose my parents would listen, because they are my parents and they love me. However I find it harder and harder to relate with them as time goes on, and that makes it more difficult in turn to “confide” in them, as it were. I’m at a loss for ways to keep from losing my mind.


Note: This was written months ago on paper, and only just now typed and uploaded.