patchwork needlepoint


I believe I was born to die as often as I can. After all heaven must be seen to be understood, and life must be felt before heaven can be recognized

There are times death is like electricity and thunder, gliding around snap and crackle just beyond reach as life needles me oblivious. This is when meanings blur into goosebumps and flatlines angle across my vision. Life grows inside my skull like a tumor out of control, delicately perfumed with flowers and fresh incognito, did you know a tumor can be made unbearably beautiful? Only takes endless boredom, a shame of oblivious proportions and a pinch of honey

It is usually time to listen to death vibrating at my fingertips, life signs are hardly subtle. It has to be timed. As painful as rewarding as much. Often we shoot for painless and never notice a few deaths go by. Death is not meant to be easy. It has to be ripped off like a hangover that grew into a sacred ritual, burned out like a rival forest fire. It is never easy to bleed a concrete building, much harder to die without fifteen examples and an entrance fee. Not impossible.

In one cycle, I die, and I am allowed a glimpse of the afterlife. I see sunrise from a cloud. It hits my eyes and I’m stung alive again, quick, waiting. I wonder if I died peacefully, bravely. I hope so. The aftermath is so elevating it must be the outcome of at least a semi-noble undoing. I see a golf course winding around the last piece of semi-random flora left on life, it comforts me, heaven clearly has a sense of humor. The burden of eternal solitude needs every occasional comic relief.

But I’m afraid there is no water. Rain flows around, the rivers and the oceans have been warned, Glass like earth from space fills all the empty spaces water left. Look don’t touch. And I love to caress doors and people I want open, how can I work in heaven? But again, I no longer exist.

Other times the horizon line cuts through my fall and death is just a glorious dream. Still other days when I am the horizon zipping across at illusion speed, no friction to bring me back. I have a love-hate relationship with friction. It burns when I cling, burns when I let go, I happen to like being burned.

Someone claws at my mind, the reverie snuffles and I am alive again. I scuff my shoes on the bottom line, waiting for the next train back. This time I want to see an animal, perhaps naked, I would pay too, but I understand death is free? How much has changed since the last time I was here? Do I get to choose? What price a heaven if I cannot get what I want? Try as I might, the living keep dragging me back in a world I don’t belong in or desire. They keep trying to persuade me life is another kind of heaven, and I come back here, to wait.

After so many gratuitous and random deaths, can it be any surprise that a square cut pane of glass is my favorite life form? Stained painted bulletproof. And life, just another disease to be cleaned, sterility the most convenient way to living. Dying becomes a bonus, really.

Is there something wrong with me? But of course, always is, except whenever I die, that is the closest to perfection I get. I am usually perfect when I am no longer around


3 Responses

  1. Nothing is perfect. That is one of my favourite sentences. That is a brilliant piece of writing, Ms Mist.

    ~MM – Thanks Paul! I know, and yet I cant stop trying, its good to see you here 🙂

  2. brilliant!

    i read it 3 to 4 times to enjoy it to fullest..

    Thanks Shraddha!

  3. Intriguing. Sad, yet comforting. You are one of the lucky blessed ones….considering death is heaven for you. I’m glad the living always pull you back….tis grace at work!

    Peace, Light and Love, C.

    I hope so Cordie :), thanks!

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