Winter Deaths

Death.

A process where a living person- breathing, moving, blinking etc – becomes still in fractions of seconds. The heart stops. The pulse dies. Slowly, colors leave the body. They dance back into the air, absorbed by the sun, swept by the wind. Tombs are made to collect as much of the colors as possible. Those which escape become rainbows that bring joy to the living, who look in awe at light reflections they will someday be a part of . We’ll all dissolve at some point and with us we’ll take others’ colors. Life is all connected in an intricate web.

When the cold steals the heat off my fingers to warm itself up,I remember your solid, blue fingers folded on your stomach as you lay in that coffin. I’ve never shivered from the cold. It was always remembering your scene that sent chills to my heart. I hate winter for that very reason : that it reminds me of your blankets and boiling coffee and lost, blurry yesterdays that I can’t seem to put my hands on anymore. I forgot the sound of your voice – all the screaming that happened wiped it off my memory. But I do remember the story you’ve told me about that time you almost died while climbing that hill to work. Or the one about how she used to write you poetry on her father’s newspapers, and secretly give them to the mailman to send them to you. It’s a shame that she was killed after being caught giving the mailman those letters on a stormy January afternoon. They thought she was having an affair with him.

And I remember the poem you told me you wrote her. You’ve always recited it by heart. I wish she had had the chance to hear it.

There are no real words to describe death – be it death of people, events or experiences. Someone, or something, just disappears. All what’s left are videos constantly pressed on play-back.

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The 31st Of The 12th

We called the dead from their graves and told them they’ve finished one year of their eternity. Such good friends they were.By the campfire, flames dispensed in the still air after eating the last of their book’s pages.

Some things never fade. They just change states or shed skin. Bones remain as flower petals fall of scaly skin, and scaly skin falls off skeletal remains.Crumbling masks. Origins that send goosebumps to the skin.

I was never able to understand such processes. I don’t see the point anymore anyways.I’ve heard congratulations on the new beginning, the new birth. Such naive actions. The book hasn’t finished yet. The writer’s hand just got crippled. His tongue got cut; his eyes popped. This always happens on the 31st of the 12th. The brain is what remains functioning, forced to reflect on a story it can no longer tell. Self- torture. The worst and the best all send yearning thoughts that sizzle and fry. Those who use their senses never experience such pain. This year, I agreed to continue the book that will be burnt.

I attached a pen to the clock’s arms and surrounded it with papers pinned down by my friends’ bones. I hid it all away in the depth of the jungle.

Let them cripple my hands. The clock will continue the story.