Life Until Death

This is a short poetic/philosophical piece I wrote. It revolves around some thoughts I have on a daily basis. I felt as if they would make for a good dark short non-fiction story.

I can’t sleep. There’s so much going on inside my head. I can’t even shut my eyes. It all starts with one simple thought as I lay in bed late at night: what will it feel like when I am dead? An overpowering flood of emptiness and butterflies fill my stomach. This is because I believe death feels like those few moments you have before you drift off into slumber. A slight consciousness of awareness of oneself, and if left undisturbed, the next thing one experience is an array or lack of dreams. Death is the lack of dreams. This anxiety makes it hard for me to want to fall asleep; I hate the feelings floating inside me. If I were to get up, it would wake my boyfriend as well. He doesn’t need to know how often I think about death. It’s irrational to have so much worry for something that happens to everyone. I can not control that I die, and I must sleep. Finally, I sleep.

It’s morning. I watch my creamer collide and swirl within my coffee cup. It never gets old. Outside the sun shines over the pine-tree line while I sit on the couch and sip on the coffee made by my boyfriend an hour before I woke. He wakes up earlier than I do. Once I fall asleep, I want to stay asleep as long as possible to avoid reality. Calamities are discussed on the television, yet I feel as if they never impact my life; though I worry they may. My boyfriend sits near and listens with me. Does he feel the same lack of anxiety? I tend to overthink these kind of things.

I get ready for the day ahead of me and reluctantly stumble out the door. Every moment of my day is a sliver of my life that I will never get back. At work this thought plays on repeat in my head. A constant record player I hear when I am feeling like my time could be used doing something important. Bills, food, rent, and many other things could not be paid for If I did not sell my soul to work. And that is precisely what I feel like I am doing. selling my soul. A new wave crashes over me and knocks me off my feet. Caught in the tide, I’m now underwater and struggling to get back to above the wave.

“Step outside, have a cigarette.” My mind has a funny way of attempting to make me feel okay. I step outside. I sit. I smoke.

“Why do I smoke to make myself feel temporary relief? This is shortening my life. Don’t you remember how just last night I stayed up hours after I should have been asleep worrying about death?” This is the script I have with myself in my head every cigarette I smoke. It doesn’t make it any easier to stop. Even if my own actions take away a handful of the few precious moments I have. I go back inside and continue to sell my soul for eleven dollars and fifty cents an hour. That is what an hour of my life is worth: eleven dollars and fifty cents.

I go back home to my boyfriend and embrace him. Love is what makes this damned mortality worth going through. He is my lifeboat. These moments are the ones I enjoy. His touch pulls me out of the water. His touch entraps all the butterflies. I am free. Soon, it is time to retire to bed. He falls asleep. The butterflies break free.  

Author's Note

Any criticism is good criticism!