The first time I died, it was a miracle.
During that life, I searched for ways to injure myself, to cause pain. I had tattoos everywhere, broken bones, cuts from knife fights. It wasn’t masochism, but its opposite. The flooding of endorphins, blinding, filling every breath. It was flinging my body in the opposite direction in attempt to reach homeostasis.
Life is a continued state of denial that death will ever happen, that it is happening. And every time I felt what I thought was the maximum amount of pain my body could take, I came closer to realizing that. It leaves a taste behind in your mouth like salt water, dehydrating you and making you crazy. It becomes a craving, like a lashing tongue on your pussy, taking you to the edge but not letting you cum, your body rejecting it.
When you die, this happens, but it culminates. It is the acceptance of it, it is quietly screaming “yes” with your entire being. It is life fucking you from everywhere, every opening and pore of your body. It is unimaginably erotic. The suicides, they remember this feeling, and birth themselves only to reach abortion, like addicts.
But it is also true that we are living since the day we die. And I’ve been waiting here, in this nothingness, only to arrive and live out that stretch of time between life and death, which is infinitely small and infinitely large, and then come back and wait for it again.