Sunday Dec 04, 2022

An Exercise in Self-Depression

I have the most morbid of thoughts.

planecrash1 crash

I usually fantasize about plane crashes especially when I’m on a plane. I turn on my mobile phone when the pilot announces we’ve reached cruising altitude to see whether it’s really THAT dangerous, whether the plane will plunge because my phone’s signal will jam the plane’s radio system. I wonder how many seconds I’ll have to brace myself if an engine suddenly blows and the plane spirals crazily back to earth. Sometimes I fantasize about how many seconds I have to escape if my car suddenly catches fire in the middle of traffic and my seatbelt won’t unbuckle. Or if I’m parked and a trailer loses control and smashes into me, squeezing the front into a wall or another car. Sometimes I sing Owl City’s “Hospital Flowers” especially where it goes,

I survived a dreadful accident

In the car crash of the century

My shattered hopes collapsed on cold cement

But in the back of the ambulance I’ve never felt so content.”

I have this weird fascination with death. Weird because it sometimes surprises me the things I think of. I think of how it feels to die. Does it feel like diving off a 200-foot cliff? You know, the moment you hit the cold water, the rush of blood to the head when the water tries to fill your lungs.

Places-to-Cliff-Dive-Diver

Does death feel like someone ripping a doll apart until all that’s left are the broken pieces of wood, plastic, and straw? Does it feel like a vacuum cleaner sucking the yolk out of a broken egg? Does it feel like a rocket taking off and leaving gravity behind? Does it feel like an implosion, the atoms fusing and fusing until they become an infinitesimal, microscopic, weightless mass?

 

Does it matter HOW we die? Maybe dying peacefully in our sleep is the best form of death; or maybe it’s as horrifying as a mouse stuck in a running blender. Maybe those who die violently are given inverse rewards- maybe they actually Rest in Peace.

Maybe the dead are not dead at all, but merely paralyzed; able to hear and feel but unable to respond. Maybe in their coffins they lie still, tortured by the tickling of grave-worms as they feast on their fetid flesh; rotting but unable to scratch the itch.

Maybe it’s like going on a cruise where someone serves your meals, scrubs your toilets, gives you massages whether you need them or not; maybe you’ll enjoy the company of the other-deads, have conversations with the great men who conquered the world; maybe the servants and orderlies will be the evil men that history reviles.

Maybe when we die we become an army; all the movies we’ve watched, the books we’ve read, the people we’ve spoken with. Maybe when we die we become children again and have to learn the rules of the new world.

Maybe when we die we just cease to exist.

Peter

2 thoughts on “An Exercise in Self-Depression

  1. Scary shit! Caused me to think yes! But I hate to think about death….I hate it!!!…..

Leave a Reply

Back to Top
%d bloggers like this: