Adventures in Atrophy

There’s probably something you should know about me. It has come to my attention that over the past three years, I died at some point. Apparently, it happened without my knowledge, like some freak accident I didn’t see coming or passing away in my sleep. I suppose it makes sense the way certain situations have pushed me forward throughout these years, how life never bothered to wait for me to catch up and never allowed time for me to figure out I had expired, how it never informed me I wasn’t even a part of this mortal coil, only coiled up in my own cacophony. It has been said the time it takes for a person to figure out they have died is solely dependent on them, based on many factors within themselves, including how attached they were to the world and their own bodies. I think of how obsessed I am with my body, how materialistic I’ve become and it all makes perfect sense. No wonder I never realized I had died. I am still very much sutchured to myself and my mind.

It all came to me after I returned home. Without the weight of school surrounding my shoulders, I was able to find some stability, some sense of rest. And within that rest, the realization of my rigor mortis took place. I realized how sad I still was, how uninterested I was in friends and family, how I’d rather just stay in my room and fall asleep to the soothing sounds of cheap infomercials. As the light from the television pirouetted across my veiled pupils, I understood I was dead. I really thought things would change. I thought things would get better once I left school but I also thought that when I left home. I realize nothing has changed. Nothing has gotten better. If anything, I’ve only begun to rot.

These past three years have emptied me of all emotion. It’s taken away my blood and spine and interest in things I once loved. My heart has been hollowed out and I suspect it was done ventricle by ventricle, valve by valve, one piece at a time until it was nothing more than a shell. And maybe that’s why I never noticed my life slipping from me. It happened so gradually, so subtly. And I was too distracted to notice my shallow breaths, the headaches that I dismissed as stress that was really a lack of oxygen to my head. I died by inches and was too numb to notice.

Now I have two tasks ahead of me: I’ve got to figure out how to pass over and in the meantime, I’ve got to “live” life as a member of the walking dead. I have to coexist with these meat people. I have to hide my withering flesh and put on heirs, pretend to feel and laugh so no one detects my deterioration. And that’s why I’ve chosen to write about my life and death and the place in between that I find myself now. Maybe if I can make sense of what happened, maybe if I can understand myself a bit more, I’ll become less attached, more able to let go of the dream I had for myself. If I can accept that this life is over, if I can come to terms with my turgid body, if I can mend my mind then just maybe I’ll be able to pass over peacefully.

It’s all about unfinished business. It’s all about tying up loose ends. And in my life, I cut out a lot of people, leaving open wounds and seething scabs. And I’ve been cut up a bit myself. By examining these events, hopefully I can understand everyone’s actions. Examination leads to understanding and I can’t move on unless I understand why I’ve been hurt so much, why life took such a drastic turn in the wrong direction and how I let it all happen. I don’t feel anything anymore so I’m not scared to go back to those dark places, to reawaken old memories that have lied dormant in my chest. When it comes to slicing into old scars, I am fearless.

I'm also bitter. I am not bitter that I am dead. I am fine with that. I am bitter at life and I’m bitter at myself for not living the way I should have lived. And maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to cross over. My bitterness has formed an anchor that has weighed me down and kept me from ascending. I have to let it all go.

And that’s why I’m writing about all of this. I’m ready to move on. I’m ready to let all of this go. I am dead but I can still feel pangs of residual remorse over my life. I’m ready to find some understanding. I feel I am in a good position to do so. Now that I’m in a state of undeath, I am on the outside looking in. Things seem so much clearer from this angle of atrophy. And I hope by writing about life and death, I’ll open up the minds of others, offering a different way of looking at things. Through my “no pulse” perspectives, I hope that others can find the understanding they are looking for.

Instead of just rotting, I'll write and I'll write for as long as my carpals are capable. And maybe I've been granted a reprieve from the reaper for a reason. Maybe instead of me understanding that I died, maybe I'm supposed to understand that I lived, that my life wasn't as pointless as I thought it was. We're all supposed to have a purpose but I guess I never found mine. Or if I did, I didn't recognize it. Or maybe my purpose wasn't designated to life but to death. Maybe that's why I'm still here despite decomposition.

I'm going to put together my life and death in words. I'm going to craft my existence through poetry and the things I ponder. Along the way, I'm going to post old writings that I still believe to be true, some of my favorite reflections on life, love and humanity...or what's left of it. Come along for the ride as I chronicle my adventures in atrophy.