Will You Die?

I will die. My heart will stop beating, my brain will stop pulsing, my eyes will stop blinking. My connective tissues will waste away and leave me a lackluster sack of ecologically valuable gumbo. Yes, my ponderings will cease, my tirades will recede, and my footprints will be bleached away. The things I love, remember, and dream of will ebb and percolate back into the sea of possibilities. My properties, t-shirts, books, and guitars will be donated and sold to the litany of friends and garage-sale surfers. My mattress will hopefully be reused. I will tuck-in, check out, and foot the bill. There will be a last morning, a last night, and a last kiss. I will die; I say this in certainty only because I know, I have lived.


There will be no gleaming cyborg body frame awaiting my thaw. There will almost certainly not be some extra-dimensional alien relative to rescue me from the throws of my feeble body. There probably won't even be a computer database containing bits of info from my mind. I'll be lucky if there's a roomba at the funeral reception. I will not be born again in an etherial beam of white light. I will not punch my hand through the earth above my corpse in ten years crying "brains, brains, brains!" because of the recitation of some haitian incantation. I'm just not coming back.

There might be a flash and a sigh. You might just scream and get fried. Its possible that we linger on with some capacity of energy, imposing feelings and giving first impressions to empty rooms. Maybe I'll get my wings when some poor receptionist ignores an incoming hotel guest. I could even replay the whole life over again looking for further insight into the meaning behind my actuality. Or There could be absolute nothingness. 

Whether it be Elysium or black, purgatory or the clouds. Whether it be earthly satiation or inimitable spiritual deliverance. Whatever it is, however, and where, I can only ask that I please see you there.

Unless there are no eyes, then I guess I don't care.




Michael Minto