It is a strange feeling for those who have all their lives know otherwise that from this point on no one cares if you live or if you die, how you are feeling or what you are up to. That empty spot in your proximity ever-present unable to be dispelled by the present tense of forgetfulness. You travel about the boundaries of your near vicinity looking to recover that sensation but find it evasive to your experience because in truth of fact those once annoying silly little chronic questions about your well-being will never breach the silence of the grave. The fundamental ‘you’ are now isolated in a cushion of silence that sometimes is so deafening that it can bleed the oxygen from your lungs leaving you barely able to lift a finger beyond succumbing to resurrect some flickeringly brief memory of an incident that proves it was no always this way. In this way your current existence becomes a temple built of bones.
People tell you that it will get better and then quickly eject themselves from the conversation so as not to catch the immense draft of melancholy that coolly drives their attention span down and away from your near vicinity. You are a pariah without knowing so. Mistaken to believe that the world outside is as empty as your own now is because everyone who knows you has taken a step backward. The fence is clearly marked and all parties play their part to remain where they are found to be. You are a prisoner of absent spirits. Ghosts who no longer call or care to haunt, your own mind filling in for that task waiting impatiently for them to return to work. How could such a thing be in that world that not so long ago you once thought you knew? Telling you against your willingness to believe that you never really looked at how things are and perhaps may never ever again will be able to?
You are a fiction much like the past that you replay at every waking moment in the screening room of your unconscious action. A thirsty man desperately needing the refreshment of something truly knew to sweep into your existence and carry away everything so that you can theoretically begin again. How pathetic a creature that like of which populates Potter’s field and medical school gross anatomy labs. Passionless, soulless, the marionette-like routine of attempting to find some element of survivability rationality in the habitual replay of the logic so long lived. An explosion lived in an infinity of still frames. Blown apart and yet still physically whole.