I woke up today, to find that I had died. Or, I believe, might have died. I cannot be certain. I found myself sitting here, in this chair, rocking slowly. Slowly rocking. I woke up to the sound of creaking, slow-paced rhythm grazing the inside of my head. My stale, and ancient eyelids cracked open with a struggle, blinking once with a dry lick, and I wholly(though without cause for such a notion) desired to stand up from this restful slumber, that I believe robbed me of all my life that I had beheld before this day, even though I have yet to prove I have died.
That is, to say - I woke up today, to find that I FEEL as though I had died. I may in fact be far from that. I rise up with crunching knees, sputterings of dust puffing out with my wheezing breath, that fumbled loose from my crinkly lungs.
In rising - that is, in doing so, I am blasted with a sullen bronze coating, that both batters my senses, and knocks my wilted stilts, testing my balance. It is day; dusk, or perhaps dawn.
With the wrenching of my coarse face, manhandled like a rope in rugged hands, from the rays, I find that I am parched.
I am hungry, and deep inside me must suffer a long-starved empty bag, hissing at me in ragged fits. I am in the midst of a chain-reaction, and as randomly as I was stirred back to life, so too do the cogwork of stringy muscles enact motion to take me to where the beams shine in through:
I hobble grotesquely to the window.
Hands outstretched, I am childlike in my reaches, noticing the world around me, in few instances, while registering little; registering nothing in it's entirety:
My shriveled hands like wood-carved prosthetics; The dusty floorboards wincing beneath my steps(I find myself within a cabin, could it be my own? Mine, when I was once alive? What other possessions have I left behind?); My clothes are faded - tattered (I've worn these rags from one life, into the next it seems); dampened grey strings clutching half-heartedly to my scalp.
Everything hits me slow, as my calloused hands press lightly upon the dirty window, smearing back the caked-on dust, and the baked glass feels yielding. I have all but died, and my surroundings, right along with me.
Outside the window, I find my coffin - my home, past the groggy gathering of trees that feel nest to my shy cabin home...there in the distance (though near enough to believe it my own), remains a field. Remains a field amongst the desolate landscape of forever. Remains, like the death I myself, find myself, crawling back from. Remains, below a sudden murky sky that hardly seemed to move or shift, and yet is not what had lulled me to the window in the first place.
My crumbly hand reacts without my knowing, along with my eyes, and my tongue and lips: I wipe startlingly quick the dust from the window with my right hand, while the other tight grips the window sill. My eyes squint and click dryness familiar to me. My tongue slides a gummy gel along my blistered, split lips.
In the focus of my mind, I realize, or rather, I make out that there is someone there, in the middle of that field. Someone standing there, arms outstretched. A well reasoned chill drips down my back as I realize that it seems to be calling to me. I am urged.
Some deep, primitive instinct inside me groans, compelled to meet the heedless attentions I sense await me out there, and as I turn to face the cabin door, feeling pieces of me working with new life I had not felt moments before, I am reminded of a hunger I might have had, and possible ways that I could sate it.