I wonder how death is like. I remember people or rather I see them. Screaming, gasping for the last breath, hearing a horrible screech, seeing people in white. I always thought that you’d see death in front of you reveal itself under its hood. What’s under that hood?
It was death itself. Nobody who saw it could say something about it. They were dead, lying there under heaps of tears or disgrace. Why was it a sin to say something bad about the dead? What if we were disgraced by their actions and their further action, the one which wasn’t on then their will? To get buried or burned to ashes. How could you write or ask something like that.
I always imagined death as a figure drenched in black with the scythe pressed against my throat. I feel it pressed deeper as he’d reveal his face.
Who was he?
Or was it a she?
Or a skeleton so dry, that all is impossible to reveal? Would he cock his head sideways as I’d spit the phrase into his face. But then my face would turn chalk white. He’d do whatever follows next for me to collapse, memories flashing as they get sucked out of me.
Does he get them? Does he feed with them? Is that how he kills, destroying our essence as the memories build us to drop off us in another body or another world, destination?
Or does he end it with a kiss, judging how much we cherish that action? Does he end it with a quick brush, as his fair hair would brush my cheeks, as he absorbs me into his mouth, eating my memories?
How does it feel?
To end a life with a kiss?
To drop the body, the tingling self in the mouth, like a remaining, foreign taste in the mouth, as you see people storm into the room. Do you brush them off if it during a middle of an operation? Do you play with the doctor’s hair; unbutton the nurse’s clothes, smirking to yourself as you are completely not interested as you glance towards the victim. He sees you. Lick the lips.
The feast is prepared.
You’d lean closer to get a right angle and start.
Start taking away the life, as other mouths are pressed along with yours breathing in unwanted oxygen giving a satisfying taste to the kiss.
Would you rub your mouth as you lean back?
Would you kiss the forehead?
Or would you just chop his head off?
Day Twenty Eight
It was death itself. Nobody who saw it could say something about it. They were dead, lying there under heaps of tears or disgrace. Why was it a sin to say something bad about the dead? What if we were disgraced by their actions and their further action, the one which wasn’t on then their will? To get buried or burned to ashes. How could you write or ask something like that.
I always imagined death as a figure drenched in black with the scythe pressed against my throat. I feel it pressed deeper as he’d reveal his face.
Who was he?
Or was it a she?
Or a skeleton so dry, that all is impossible to reveal? Would he cock his head sideways as I’d spit the phrase into his face. But then my face would turn chalk white. He’d do whatever follows next for me to collapse, memories flashing as they get sucked out of me.
Does he get them? Does he feed with them? Is that how he kills, destroying our essence as the memories build us to drop off us in another body or another world, destination?
Or does he end it with a kiss, judging how much we cherish that action? Does he end it with a quick brush, as his fair hair would brush my cheeks, as he absorbs me into his mouth, eating my memories?
How does it feel?
To end a life with a kiss?
To drop the body, the tingling self in the mouth, like a remaining, foreign taste in the mouth, as you see people storm into the room. Do you brush them off if it during a middle of an operation? Do you play with the doctor’s hair; unbutton the nurse’s clothes, smirking to yourself as you are completely not interested as you glance towards the victim. He sees you. Lick the lips.
The feast is prepared.
You’d lean closer to get a right angle and start.
Start taking away the life, as other mouths are pressed along with yours breathing in unwanted oxygen giving a satisfying taste to the kiss.
Would you rub your mouth as you lean back?
Would you kiss the forehead?
Or would you just chop his head off?
Day Twenty Eight
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