I’ve been a long time dead, 237 years, six months and three weeks if you want to be precise. Do you want to know something else? Death, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ve loved every second of it. I never truly started living until after I died, on the day of my death at was like a great weight was lifted from my shoulders, and the pain in my heart went away for the first time in many years. Of course the pain went away. How could I have felt heartache when my heart was no longer beating?
There used to be a bar, on the outskirts, the fringes. I’d go there sometimes when I craved the taste of flesh, the touch of a woman. The women who frequented the bar may have lacked sophistication but at that point in my life I wasn’t looking for deep and meaningfulls, I had no desire to put the world to rights I had done my share of the good Samaritan bollocks, and look where that had got me, laying on a mortuary slab for a couple of nights before I rose again. I just look out for number one these days, because let’s face it; nobody else is going to are they?
It’s nice to not have to think about anyone but yourself. You should try it sometime, not to have a care in the world, to see all the suffering, to know that it’s there but to not give a damn. You may think that’s a selfish attitude, but I’m not selfish, I’m dead. How can I care and love when I feel nothing, when I’m barren, hollow, empty. How can I feel when my heart is static in my chest and my blood no longer flows? So what if I never see a sunset on the beach again? Those things are over rated anyway.