I am dead

Prompts: Soothsayer, Beach, Lamp, Gloomy

I am dead.

I’m certain of this. I don’t know how, but it feels like this certainty is rooted deep inside of me, like it comes from the very centre of my being and emanates outwards.

I am dead.

I don’t remember how it happened, or how I got to this place, but I am walking on a vast, empty, beach. The tides are dull and soft, barely a brush against the shore, and the sky is overcast but silent, unmoving. To my other side, there are tall, grey cliffs that stretch out as far as I can see. I am certain that they go on forever and, with it, so does the grey, empty, sea. There are no birds, no bees, no crabs, nor even plants of any sort — the only sound is that of the gentle waves and my feet crunching over sand.

I look down at my toes, my feet, my ankles, and realise that they are…odd. My body is naked and bare for me to see but constantly changing just a little bit each time I blink. The lines on my palm are shifting, growing and shrinking, the shape of my arms, legs, and torso swells and contracts, and the colour of my skin changes slightly each time I move. It is impossible to tell if this form is young or old, impossible to tell its gender or height. I do not remember what I looked like.

Somehow, this knowledge does not frighten me, and neither does this endless dull landscape. My feet touch the sand and the breeze touches my skin and a bone deep contentment settles within me. I do not yet remember who I was, but I have brought with me here a sadness that I know will bring with it many memories. This sadness, however, I do not think it belongs to me.

This sadness is one I feel vicariously, one that grows from love I feel for the ones I’ve surely left behind. I think I remember them. Not yet what they look like or how they spoke, but I remember what they felt like, and know without a shadow of doubt that I would recognize them no matter what. I know that I have left them in pain, and I feel it through them. I don’t feel it in my heart, I’m not sure that I still have one, but I feel it all around me.

The scenery responds to me and moves to accommodate these new sensations. The tide grows stronger and louder, and the sky starts moving and darkening as though suddenly alive. I can now remember their faces, their voices, their smells. I can remember their hands in mine and I can remember what they meant to me. I must’ve been rather old when I died — and there’s great comfort in that — but strangely enough, I never truly believed that I would die. It’s awfully funny in retrospect to connect to such a thought, but I don’t know if I am the same being now as the one that I recall.

There is no doubt a connection to this woman that I used to be, and she is a part of me, but she is not all of me. I remember her face, her skin and scars, and these features begin to reflect on the body that I now occupy. With these new features come clothes — familiar garments that wrap around me and shield me from the strengthening breeze. It hurts to remember, for all the things that I have lost now have names.

Yet somehow, the contentment remains.

Ahead of me, as though a salve for the ache, appears an old wrinkly-scalped man dressed in white. His feet kiss the reaching waves and his beard ruffles with the wind — the sight of him alone calms the weather. I know him — he is a soothsayer I followed during my time alive — an old Indian sage who certainly had a name, but this name no longer holds importance where we are now. He turns to me with soft eyes and, somehow, I find myself standing next to him without ever completing the distance between us. He sees my confusion, and relief, but only laughs and turns his gaze to the sea once more. I exhale, in awe of his presence, yet entirely unperturbed by it.

“So you were right.” I say, following his gaze.

“About what?”

“About the meaning of life and what comes after.”

“Hmm,” he responds, “I wonder what makes you say that?”

“Well, you’re here,” I tell him, “You died several years ago, and yet you are here to guide me. That must mean you figured it out.”

He sounds amused, but patient, “And you believed my version of things, therefore, by extension, so did you?”.

“I suppose so. Am I wrong?”

He shakes his head, “No one is wrong. This part is always what you expect it to be.”

I look at his face, and recognize that it doesn’t appear with the same clarity as a face this close to me should. It looks as though a face from a photo — without all the little imperfections of skin and detail that appear in real life. A small wave of fear comes crashing against my ankles but ebbs away with ease.

“So none of this is true.” I say, and his eyes meet mine.

“Of course it is. It’s all true.”

“But you aren’t real, you are only as I remember you.”

“Of course.” he says, reaching out to touch my palm, “But that’s real enough.”

His touch is feather light, but I must admit that it does feel the way a touch ought to. He may not be whole, but that doesn’t matter; he is still my guide, and I am sure of this.

“Does this mean that I made this place?” I ask.

“You’re getting it,” he says, closing his eyes and nodding his head, a gesture I’ve seen so often in his videos,“You made all of this for yourself.”

“To make this easier.” I muse.

He smiles, “Being dead is always easy, but you’re right. To make this easier.”

I consider that for a moment, and my beach finds stillness to give me room to think. It does make sense — the clothes, the sage, the beach and its gentle waves. Even the sadness is comfortable, and it feels right for the moment, but I am certain that it will pass. It feels okay.

The two of us stand in silence, the waves washing the sand off our feet. Time feels strange here, I know that no matter how long we stay, nothing will change unless my thoughts allow it.

“What now?” I ask my sage. His fingers are entwined behind his back and his white kurta catches the breeze and ruffles lightly.

He sighs deep and slow, “Perhaps we move on.” he says, bringing his hands forward. He holds an old oil lamp between his palms. It’s a bright little lamp, nothing special — I should’ve known to expect this part.

I giggle, a little bell-like sound that my living throat had long forgotten. It feels impossible to take death seriously anymore now that I know who put this scene together. My earthly incarnation was always a creature of cliche, it was only natural that I might expect to be ferried into the afterlife. My soothsayer grins and the fire in his lamp dances like a nervous little bird, but it does not grow dimmer.

Of course there’s a little lamp, and of course a boat emerges from the gray water and docks itself by our feet. My sage with my guiding lamp, and my boat in my sea, bobbing only lightly up and down as we climb in.

“Do you think you’re ready to take on the rest?” asks my sage, dipping his fingers into the water and looking as peaceful as I’ve ever imagined him.

My beach is still grey and monotone, nothing stands out and my secondhand sadness remains, yet no part of this is difficult or at all threatening. I shrug my shoulders.

“I’ve decided to stop trying” I respond, “Didn’t you say death was easy?”

My sage closes his eyes and nods once again, his features becoming looser and more liquid as we go.

“That it is” he says, “That it is.”