If the soul lives on,though i’m not certain it does, i know what it is to be dead.

Lying on my back, the light in the room acquires a greyish tinge. My skin feels clammy, like coming in from the sun on a hot day and descending into a dank basement or cellar, but i’m not cold. I’m not hot either, though the sheet pulls across my skin like fingers dragging across cellophane. I can hear my heart beating in the hollows of my chest, muted by the inches of fat, skin and muscle, but it echoes, vacant and reverberating like the soundtrack eminating from the television set downstairs - unclear and dis-joined without the accompanying graphic.

I’ve forgotten how to force a limb to move - how to exert one’s will on the organism that houses it. I sigh in resignation. Sighing is a relief and i remember how to move. I roll over slowly, carefully, hyper-conscious of the shifting of my weight, yet unable to discern exactly how it’s dispersed across my thighs, butt and arms. I stare vacantly at the colours vivid enough to catch my attention. They still evoke memories, but not the emotions that usually make reminscing worthwhile. I close my eyes and stare at the different shades of black dancing without stimulation. I count my breaths: Inhale….wait…exhale…ONE…Inhale…wait…exhale…TWO…Inevitable and unasked for.

Why can’t i be so aware of being alive?

The preceding was a first draft of a piece of creative writing that began with my feeling like Mary Poppins and ended on a reflection on what it is to feel dead. Please share any criticism you might have. i hope to revisit in within the next couple of weeks.