a rudaali wake

of the plaintive wailing and the rotting flesh, is the regular one. its not really possible to realize sentience without knowing what without is exactly. all the people who can see thestrals, they know it, they see it every day. the symptoms, the faint antennae, a murmuring loss.

but the flat screened people, thats we, we see sentience upon sentience, and when enough lifetimes have passed, silently through, in a bare minute, death is close, all the time, everywhere. its not possible to see panic anymore, its a faded memory, suddenly loud and anime.

and to see me, is a curse, for I have 3d vision of death. past and future. and of course, everyone shoots the messenger, its a time travelled comfort. but I am not a messenger. death has no message. messages are for the living. I am a nothingness through which you will fail to see, what I already know about the way forward, and you and I, we'll play it out in unison. thats another thing death is. entirely self unaware.

dont get me wrong, I dont hate you. I always love you. but I do know our expiry date. As well as a grocer knows which apples to pick, which to sell, which to eat. no apple is forever. and I want forever, with a desperate seething demand. but the longer we sit at this table, the more we fade, there is less to say, to do. our apple is painted, photographed and shared a billion times. life takes two, ten, a thousand, and we are all absent.