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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
Isaac Marion
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It's a strange feeling, being so utterly surrounded by her. Her life scent is on everything. She's on me and under me and next to me. It's as if the entire room is made out of her.
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We will cry and bleed and lust and love, and we will cure death. We will be the cure. Because we want it.
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Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you're holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.
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In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.
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I can't seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.
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A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed, or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I'm growing tired of easy things.
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There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can't cross it. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.
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I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.
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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
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There's not really such thing as 'good' or 'bad' people, there's just like…humanity. And it gets broken sometimes.
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My "heart". Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls. My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the center of my chest and seep out of there, diluted and faint, but real.
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All the shitty stuff people do to themselves... it can all be the same thing, you know? Just a way to drown out your own voice. To kill your memories without having to kill yourself.
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If there are rules, we're the ones making them. We can change them whenever we want to.
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And we'll see what happens when we say Yes while this rigor mortis world screams No.
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But we don't remember those lives. We can't read our diaries.' 'It doesn't matter. We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.' 'But can we choose that?' 'I don't know.' 'We're Dead. Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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She hugs me. It's tentative at first, a little scared, and yes, a little repulsed, but then she melts into it. She rests her head against my cold neck and embraces me. Unable to believer what's happening, I put my arm around her and just hold her. I almost swear I can feel my heart thumping. But it must just be hers, pressed tightly against my chest.
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It's not like I'm such a shiny happy person either, you know? I'm a wreck too, I'm just... still alive.
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I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?
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Just... ate," M says, frowning at me a little. "Two days...ago." I grab my stomach again. "Feel empty. Feel... dead." He nods. "Marr...iage.
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The world that birthed that story is long gone, all its people are dead, but it continues to touch the present and future because someone cared enough about that world to keep it. To put it in words. To remember it.
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Now I'm just standing here on the conveyor. Along for the ride. I reach the end, turn around, and go back the other way. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few hours of this, I notice a female on the opposite conveyor. She doesn't lurch or groan like most of us. Her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her. That she doesn't lurch or groan. I catch her eye and stare at her.
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When the entire world is built on death and horror, when existence is a constant state of panic, it's hard to get worked up about any one thing. Specific fears have become irrelevant. We've replace them with a smothering blanket far worse.
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It's hard to take your life so seriously when you can see it all at once.
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But I'm not afraid of the skeletons in Julie's closet. I look forward to meeting the rest of them, looking them hard in the eye, giving them firm, bone-crunching handshakes.
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You should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. Memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident.
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There is no ideal world for you to wait around for. The world is always just what it is now, and it's up to you how you respond to it.
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I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.
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Once you've arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.
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Peel off these dusty wool blankets of apathy and antipathy and cynical desiccation. I want life in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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Quote of the day
Nobody ever did anything very foolish except from some strong principle.
William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne
Isaac Marion
Born:
December 30, 1981
(age 42)
Bio:
Isaac Marion is an American writer. He is best known as the best-selling author of the "zombie romance" novel Warm Bodies.
Known for:
Warm Bodies (2010)
The Burning World: A Warm Bodies Novel (2017)
The New Hunger (2013)
Most used words:
dead
feel
life
mind
remember
memories
lips
living
people
time
keep
music
easy
left
sleep
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