The Warmth Remains

Alex said the bridge was too old, the beams of wood too worn to walk safely across. But yonder the bridge laid a paradisal place, secret and full of magic. I yearned of that light, and from my greed and hunger came my fate. It was an old bridge, cast-iron and oak—residing behind droves of ancient trees, hidden from the world. Who could have told a young degenerate the truth enough for him to abide? I was no listener, even now. 

I walked the streets for a while that night, after my death. It was a small town night; no one breathed hot breath into the night from subtle cars, or light-hewn porches—only the streetlights accompanied me. This was weeks ago, but still I can recall the immediate feeling of release—how right as my fall had ended, and my body crashed against itself—on gnashing pyre like rocks—the matter of what mattered disintegrated with my bones, and my rigid constitutions lifted from their foundations. I was free, like the robed men of Christ could only dream. Every day is unending now, seconds and minutes becoming first—suggestions, then pointless rhythms, with no need to listen to the living alarms, of whatever nature. 

Is there a point in celebrating this form? I find no trouble in saying that there is little point. Such proclamations, ceremonies and memorial are the forms of living men's fears; who tear at themselves in all consuming plight, at the multitudinous or extant possibility that they will lie forever unthinking. They must revere this festival day, so that the living may walk—believing and hoping we contain otherance from our bones. I see the insanity of it, how they all spin, attuned to this off rhythm of seconds and minutes. I see the madness, the monster which resides in the crazed living eye. I walk on wintery roads, unfeeling to the crushing cold.

The only alive thoughts, or those which still grip me, are those of my loved ones’ pain. How can men desire life after death—to spectate this retched, unhindered and merciless sorrow across all those who loved them? Can you believe it comforting? That you, lofted above pain, might become kindred and heartened from your mother's never drying tears? 

I see the wracked face of my sister, who just three months ago lost her brother to his own ignorance. I see her eyes, how they falter in the sun, in the goodness of the world—how the only place she machinates is within the darkness. I see the wreckage and destitution of my closest friend, who now often thinks of suicide. I see his wild hair, uncombed and strewn with dirt—I see his shaking hands flip through pictures of our memories. Then I look up from this road, to see the Jack O'Lantern rows, in an infinite line down every street. I feel the mirth of the living, their fear ignored for these moments. What of real death, where is it here? 

No matter where you go, there is no real celebration of death; of mine or any who also walk these roads. We trudge in solid lines; the unforgiven, the wasted, the souls gone up from life—unpraised. There is less a real inkling or ponderance of mortality on this day (less even so a remembrance of the departed) and rather in its place lives the capitalism of their fear. So, as I see the store bought candy doled out by cheery mothers and fathers, I see money painted orange and black, and nothing of a shared mourning. 

I saw secret truths that day, across the bridge there was a gleaming place unseen—it called out to me. I saw a figure detach from the light, which glittered and sparked into the dimming evening air. And from the figure came a deep yearning to be with it, or like it—I was only twenty feet from it, all I had to do was cross the bridge. 

It was another spirit—I believe it was at least. There are things you still don’t know even in death; there is no immediate enlightenment in dying. I walked to it clumsily—Alex yelled out to me; attempting to quickly restrain me with his words. But I was with the spirit then, in that moment there was no reason to fear the rickety bridge. 

Fall, fall away. 

We all fall away. 

Fall, fall away

That’s what it said— I followed its words, which echoed in empty space. I felt the rustling of leaves behind me; Alex was running after me—I don’t remember moving so quickly in my entire life. And in the final moments before the fall, the spirit again said. 

Fall, Fall away, 

We all fall away. 

Smiling people pass me while I walk against them, in the certainty and uncertainty of life, loving hands move young and vital hearts forward—for some unknown reason. I see them visit neighbors, dressed as ghouls and princesses, I see them all pushed forward by various loving hands, again—for some unknown reason. And on the big house streets, kids get big candy bars and multiple pieces of smaller candy—their eyes shimmering with hopefulness and peaceful certainty. On every face, in every corner of the night rests an ignored spirit, some alcove where true death hides and weeps. On every doorstep sits a lost soul, verily saying, “I will be found” or something of that nature. On every corner of each street waits a specter, for their family, friends, or lost love to push them forward, for some guiding hand, for some unknown reason. 

For some unknown reason, I wait too—for old love, for the spirit which drew me to die—to come back again. For some unknown reason—I expect the final face, the ending place—to appear. And in snow, cold and utter grief—unhanded and unpraised, my spirit finds no warmth in the hollow light of man's mortal significance. Uncounted, undivided and slowly unfound—the warmth of old loves return sustains me. 

Fall, fall away. To not be guided, to not be washed over by the scent of mortal empathy, grace and dominion. And instead to know of these traipsing children, as ignorers of their final destiny. We all fall away. 

And yet, for some unknown reason, I smile when I see their smiles, and remember the warmth I lost.