Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: death

10/May/2013

they will be wrong of course

you wake up in the absence of moonlight to a shocking realization related to the way you’re going to die soon, any day any year now. you know perfectly well that you’re going to die but there’s a bitter taste on your fat tongue and a six-legged chill crawling its way up your spine: there are people out there with ideas about who you are, who you really really are deep down underneath the personality and the skin and the bone. that and nothing else will be what is left of you: strangers’ hastily formed impressions of an insignificant person.

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29/Apr/2013

Befriend a Spectre Day

It is hard to have ghosts as friends. They do not see the point in eating like you do (did) and they can float for days staring at the same painting, really looking at it. They appreciate things differently from us. And bit by bit you fade away. Ghosts are deaf, because all matter passes through them, they are always in the vacuum of space. Your hearing gets worse and worse until you’re sure flesh-people are just mouthing things at you to mess with you but then someone drops a plate and: nothing. And you should have eaten days ago.

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28/Apr/2013

Strigiformes

Don’t look in the obituaries. He didn’t die but he might as well have, he is gone. He dropped out in a rather suicide-like manner but there was no splash, no blood. No-one looked over the edge. No-one said anything. Ripples of lacks of facial expressions spread through the crowd and he was an absence.

He had told us not to search the ravine floor, as he wouldn’t be there and we’d be wasting our time. He must have fucking hated the thought of us wasting our time, huh. We held a not-funeral by the side and didn’t invite anyone.

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21/Mar/2013

First Kiss

Our pets always died. We ran out of room in our own garden so I sneaked into the neighbours’. I dug carefully and put the grass back the way it was; I became adept at handling shovels. Extremely adept. So when Mariot – who never called me – called me, I knew what it was about. She told me where to meet her.

Someone got a gravelly grave. I hadn’t recognized his face. I saved the place on my phone, as an X in a geotagged tweet in the drafts folder, and told Mariot she owed me. She gave me a kiss.

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14/Feb/2013

Relēthē

Chy-Gorat died and left nothing behind: no money, no words, not even a withered husk of skin or any bleached bones. His friends remembered the man against his wishes, and Issachi lost his tongue before he could hold his memorial speech.

Gorat started fading then, but they made him a statue. They repair it when it dries and crackles, and when it melts in the sun, and after it is struck by lightning.

And when every walleted picture blanked and every yearbook photo was burnt to ashes, Issachi reconstructed his friend from stray footage and distributed the new images everywhere.

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15/Nov/2012

Rigor Mortis O.

It is always a compromise, always a death. (I thought maybe it should be construed as a coping mechanism for an inevitable death, a rebirth, but that excuses it.) Weave your death into your identity to feel less hollow, the same way you would keep a gangrenous limb for reasons of symmetry alone. You are always a collective, never a collectivist. Never individual though starkly individualist. It saddens me how kinderly you people forget; I am not impressed with where you work, not unless this just pays you, for being you. Instead your ink is theirs, and you become

invaded.

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