I M M O R T A L S …

As soon as that bullet went through my head, the pain disappeared. My soul levitated leaving my body lying in cold blood. I watched as my veins and arteries burst open to allow what they call sacred- blood, to drain out. I should have donated that.

Days later, my spirit watched as the pounds, nearing a ton, of earth soil was being deposited over the casket where my body lay. I watched as the mortals mourned. Some in genuine sorrow, others because I had died with their debts unpaid and others for show. From my view, the earth was not as beautiful as mortals proclaimed. The earth seemed like a broken piece of the universe that yearned to be saved from itself.

Money, considered to be the source of power, laid as worthless paper, powerless and immobile in banks and house basements. The mortal heart constantly cried out to spiritual powers. Why? Even the atheists longed for the existence of a god who would befit their imagination. In death of my flesh, I had achieved peace and a spiritual freedom.

Past life, I expected heaven gates to open up for me for the few times I played righteous. I had thoughts amounting to the flames hell being ready to consume me whole into an indestructible nothingness for a time that time can’t tell nor can calendars date. Momentarily, neither of the two (heaven & hell) availed themselves to me.

I thought I would be looking down to my loved ones and take care of them. The impossibility of that thought lies in the fact that mortals lack the ability to communicate with a spirit unless they are subject to it.

I had been told, in death you see darkness. This isn’t darkness. This is more than the absence of light. It is a hollowness; a consuming hollowness. Seems like a bottomless pit without gravity. Nothing satisfies. But there’s a yearning for peace. A yearning to rest in peace. Restlessness consumes me.

All the achievements and accolades with privileges granted to me by mortals amounted to something less than vanity. The Christians while alive choose their home to be with Jehovah, Muslims choose to be with Allah -the rest of the religions choose their gods. When alive, I forgot to choose a home, now I am homeless.

They say, death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head and listen to silence. To have no yesterday and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forget life and to be at peace. And I ask or dare say back, the nerve of you to speak of that which you know nothing about.