When my friend died they lined up and down the street to say goodbye. Girls in tight sequence dresses and old teachers in fuzzy cardigans, were all crying softly to themselves waiting for their turn to touch his cold face.
I don’t know why human beings need to touch things but if I had to guess it’s because if we don’t the moment just becomes a picture in our pasts, instead of a concrete feeling in our skin.
I still remember how my grandmother’s hand felt. It was bony and frail just like when she was alive, but now that warmth that calmed me down when I was angry or scared was far away from there.
I was not among the crowd that formed for my friend that day. I kept staring at my black dress shoes trying to force myself to put them on and say goodbye, but every time I tried I couldn’t do it.
I always wondered, when he was alive, which one of us was the better friend. It was only now that I realized the crowds that came for him wouldn’t come for me. My life is lived from the inside, a most selfish of human traps. I did not put my time in, so why would anyone for me?
Even now I only think about my own death in the shadow of his. I hope it happens in a way that’s painful. I don’t want any punches pulled by whatever cosmic executioner cuts the thread. I want my death to feel like death. It better hurt like fuck.
Teleporting Typewriter 