The Coiled Heart

He was dead. He was absolutely sure he was dead. The world had turned black, ‘abyssal’ being the closest adjective to describe it. He didn’t feel like he had a body, but he felt like he had a form; some sort of mass.

But how could he be thinking? None of this made any sense. What was happening? What could he remember…

It was late to mid Spring, smack dab in the month of May. It was warm outside, but not too hot, probably in the mid- to lower-70’s. He was wearing his usual attire: jeans, a t-shirt and a zip-up, green hoodie over that. His shoes were an odd brand, he only having bought them because he didn’t have to tie them every day as they had zippers in the back.

There were odd gusts of wind on the mostly clear day, the sky a golden blue due to the full strength of the sun spreading across the crystallized droplets in the upper atmosphere. Heavy green leaves that had managed to fall off their respective trees were even being tossed about. Oddly enough, it was his second favorite time of the year, after winter.

Winter had always been cruel to him. Horrid events seemed to occur around that time no matter what he did, but he liked the season: the shorter days, the cool, crisp air, the lack of people on the sidewalk where he was currently ambulating. He could take any moment of the day and go for a stroll, by himself. Not that he was anti-social, but liked being spared the social niceties of breaking one’s train of thought just to smile or acknowledge a random passerby.

But winter had a way of dealing out fate’s cruel hand in its favor, never letting him know its plans. Another one of his oddities that he’d appreciate it so much. T’ah well.

This day in May was similar to a February morning, with the sun, leaves, breeze, lack of others; he felt alone in this world, as if everybody were playing a game (of which he was a part, but didn’t know the rules as everyone else appeared to).

Aware of this, the past ten years had been nothing more than numb. Never injecting, but having taken his fair share of chemicals to suppress reality, he’d focused on just “being” — staying around and trying to be… alive.

But the toll had been overdue for some time, and penance was obligatory. What was said was said, done was done. She was gone, again, and the Carrier would arrive to collect his sole passenger soon. All he could hope for was a final release in breath.

All of these universal mists, these “should be’s” and “set in stone” had consistently become ripped apart and undone. It was tiring, and sleep, neverending sleep, sounded so peaceful in comparison.

Odd that life, the possibility of effort, always swung in full failure. While death, an absolute of zero, laid equilibrium.