There are so many things I want to say, things I wish to scream. If only to lessen this pain of holding them in. If only to lay bare my festering heart, to somehow offer it to the skies that hold witness to my life.
To the godless sky that watched with silent disdain at the sight of my breaking heart, fully knowing the secrets they kept. On command clouds were drawn to curtain the joy of the sun—a small curtsy, I say, in response to the cries that echoed from the earth.
I imagine the sky has the best view, seeing the world swirl from a bird’s-eye view, not just from the twisting of sea and land but from the effects of death and birth that bloom and decay its essence. For just a moment, I could see the world from afar, like the birds that flew above. But then my eyes retracted like a microscope peering into my own mind, and I became abhorrently present.
With defiant tears that glazed my wide, distant eyes, I gazed at that crumpled figure that gripped a lifeless corpse. My ears bled as she screamed his name. My legs buckled as they ceased to exist, and I crumbled like a mere discarded cloth to the floor, clutching my stomach where the blow had landed.
In that moment death seemed to call to the angels and demons alike as they gathered at my side, with intrusive hands they caressed my hair and gripped my hands, whispering odd things in my ear like “I can’t imagine being you” and “sadly, it will only get harder.”
A deer in headlights, doe-eyed in spirit, I could only stare back with a head that nodded on its own accord.
What does death feel like? Nothing–they say—maybe a tinge of pain on occasion, they say. But I’d like to say it feels like a dream, a childhood nightmare, free falling for no apparent reason. Like a dream taking life, the atmosphere thickens and you can feel as the atmosphere presses—into your skin, as the world deafens to the mere whisper of a fading heart, as the air begin to taste a lot like the salty sea—the overpowering sensation of unholy dark waves that fill up your lungs, pulling you under, lulling you to sleep with bitter promises to ease the pain.
Then standing still beneath that glimmering, rippling surface, your eyes start their slow descent into that unknown madness. They transform the world before you into an art gallery not of this world—a place where death is not just the cruel picture of a distant land but the frame, the floor, the air that you heave in, and the walls that press you in to take a closer look at decay.
Because even in its most natural forms, death sickens those who observe—unable to look away, for it’s never a mere stationary image but a surrounding and encapsulating prison of the mind. It spreads like a disease to the soul, unrelenting until life mirrors its own cruel face.
With curious eyes, the living world stares in, admiring me like the cruel, distant art I once observed. They smile, they frown, they tilt their heads and whisper their thoughts on my composition. Quietly interpreting my world as they scrutinize my features and ponder my tears, speculating if they can feel and taste the texture of my torment by gaping at the swollen eyes I painted. I stare back into those gazes that see only the frame I’m nailed to, wondering if all the anguished masterpieces in the world held the same disdain for prying eyes.
I looked to the sky to find my solace from this new and unnatural world, whispering into my soul as if those departed could hear me– that in death’s final moments, there are so many things I would like to say or that I would scream if a hollow, cold hand didn’t grip my soul. I’d scream, “Don’t leave me in a world that’s growing oh so foreign.” Or I’d whisper a simple “I love you” as I held you close. But in this empty land, where life is fleeting, there are no words—only the gurgling cries of a soul wishing it could speak.