My first death happened many years ago. Sometimes the memory of it seems more like a dream, or a movie scene. I can see it, clearly; however, I have no real memory of it actually happening to me. Almost as if it killed the piece it raped. It's not sad, or pinnacle, or empowering, or depressing. It just perches upon a dusty shelf; It leads me to try to explore the other reels of film that lie there.
So I sit patiently, watching the screen flash familiar images in the placid theatre. I do this, if for no other reason, then to spark some sort of feeling in myself. Beliefs that should evoke some sort of spark in my long drained heart. Still, nothing moves me. No much pain, or sorrow, or happiness, or joy cause any kind of scintillation or revoking.
I'm desperate to know that I'm alive. I'm desperate to feel as if I'm not a ghost. How do I even know I exist here? Why do these remnants not rouse me? Are these even my memories? Is this person that I think I am even exist anymore? I wish to verify my existence here, to vindicate that I am alive, that I am who I believe myself to be. To remind myself of a life that doesn?t even feel like a memory.
I sit, and empty tears fill my eyes. I feel nothing, they mean nothing. All I want is that simple peace of existence that I can see before the film rips and burns. I suppose this is all unachievable. A being without emotion cannot achieve peace. I'm just a ghost on the blackboard.