Poetry,  Written literature | Author's writings

Life after death inside myself

I’ve never been happier
then the moment I stopped
believing in life after death.
Not the physical one,
it would be too obvious.
Life after death inside us.
Every time I exhaled the unfulfilled.
It freed me from apathy and boredom,
and again I can hear myself at night counting.
But how do you count what you can’t see?

I count every wave that didn’t hit me in the stomach.

Abandoned cities buzz in my veins,
deserts and sand clot my bloodstream.
Unvisited places and the history they tell
squeaks from my ears, they want to come out.
Whole states are growing in my stomach,
and people I haven’t met yet are breathing down my neck,
they want to catch up with me, to ask me who I am.
I count them, but it’s like they’re playing with me,
there are always two more sighs away,
they crave oxygen and call me to revive them,
in their death.
I don’t know how to do that.
I try to find them in every physical phenomenon around me.

It turns out that they are always old spies but in other bodies.

I count mud and shells I have never touched.
Exotic fruits sprout in me, the ones I haven’t tried yet,
fifty-year-old streets that I hadn’t walked.
The street beggars are shouting after me, but I can’t give them money,
I didn’t see their dirty hands and tangled beards.
My chest is about to explode from all the undiscovered parks,
parks not seen on the map by those who crossed out their journeys on it.
And my body is shipwrecked, I can barely hold it,
and in my hands is every drowned swimmer
who wanted to travel the world like me.
Moss is wrapping around them.
It grows, it doesn’t stop,
it tightens my joints, and it smells like another day I missed in nature.

My body is now an old caterer;
two entities locked in symbiosis.
One of them continually sharpens every sharp object it reaches,
it cuts itself, while others pretend not to feel it.
Everything I give birth to is a miracle,
everything that grows in me is entirely new,
an embryo more valuable than myself.
And again, I can’t revive it,
I cannot give life to the death of my fantasies.

I know I’m a human being
only when I ask myself every time what do I want?

It seems that someone else always has the answers.
Never me.
Only then am I sure of the life I have,
and convinced that without question
I always live the one I don’t have.

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