Warthogs, I once
was told, are among the first casualties during a drought because thirst
makes the worms they harbor devour them from within. Can you imagine
watching such a process if the innards were yours, smelling your own
entrails as their contents spilled and sizzled over sun-baked rocks, tasting
your own tongue's putrefaction, hearing a thousand microscopic mouth-parts
gnaw through the canals of your inner ears? That's merely a sample. If you
want a comprehensive impression of the tortures—to which I'm STILL being
subjected—add sensation. FEEL the aforementioned, with nerves that never get
numb to CONSTANT DEGRADATION.
Iím sorry to keep harping on this. Ordinarily, Iím pretty stoical. But
coping with a migraine, IN EVERY SINGLE BODY CELL, has turned me into an
insupportable wimp. A cry-baby; Iíve actually taken to blubbering—between
fits of screaming.
Why I continue to be force-fed my own carrion remains a mystery, but it
has induced rethinking—when I can cram a thought in edgewise—some
basic premises... like death being a physical, as opposed to a metaphysical,
state of termination. If this wretched experience is actually happening,
death is neither. Consciousness survives beyond the flesh—if not quite
detached from it, which is the part I cannot fathom. Corporeally speaking,
Sebastian Arnold Lazarus 'is' no more; my picked-clean, sun-baked bones are
well on their way to crumbling into powder. And yet I canít shake off their
blood-and-guts past. Whereas spiritually speaking—and I am speaking, which
means that something must outlive the organs of communication—Iím in
no-man's-land, linked like a chain gang inmate to my non-immortal twin.
ďOh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest
all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all..."
GODDAMNIT, CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENTS ARE NOT FAIR!
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