by Akim Reinhardt

Come die with me.

I don’t literally mean die. Or with me. Or want.

Do you ____ to ___ with another person/persons or by yourself?

Are there any verbs you’d like to cast about as you sit alone beneath a budding tree, or amid the carnage of rampaging armies? I’m just asking. Not that death is an option.

Death is just an illusion, created by kindly, ancient priests from lost civilizations who sought to give people hope. The truth is, we’re trapped in this life for all of eternity. There is no ending, only a distant beginning long forgotten, and a ceaseless parade of moments, unbeckoned and following a riotous route of their own determining. Marching forward, marching sideways, marching forward, time never stopping.

You are awake. You are asleep. It is all the same. You are trapped in a fleshy, boney cocoon. Rub your eyes and sigh. Turn your head and scan all the objects around you. Listen to the soft hum, the volcanic roar, the mild ringing, the clacking cacophony, the quiet exasperation slipping past your lips.

Feel everything. You feel nothing. Smack your tongue against the back of your ivory teeth, perhaps some of them metal or porcelain. Brush them again, I dare you. Wash, rinse, repeat. Wash, rinse, repeat. washrinserepeatrepeatrepeat. Read more »