They say we go either to paradise or hell. I say we go stuck between the living—left unseen.
Well, that was the kind of story unfolding inside my head, where at this moment I might be reaching out to what's breathing and alive, in a shapeless form fading after every touch.
"Am I a mist or a smoke?"
I remember I was once like them—laughter over the meadows, a cold breeze slapping along the seas, whispered voices within a campfire, and lulling songs to make me sleep. Have I a mother? or a father? Maybe sisters and a brother? I once had dreams; now did I? They seemed jolly and sweet when speaking of it.
Do I know of grief and anger? (I checked, and I still do.) It flows within me, mellow and true.
Then what about memories? and flickers of faces and life? I knew I had no recollection of it, so maybe that's why I was banished here in the afterlife.
Exhibit #2: What if we end up as mist when we die?
YOU ARE READING
a collection of odd stories in jane doe's head
PoetryWhat of life? What of death? Here we have an unnamed character swallowing different kinds of worlds through her imagination. One question rises in her head, then another. It's quite a tale, isn't it? None like no other.
