Beginnings & Ends
Life, for most humans is performed as part of a regular procedure rather than for a special reason: a routine. In the mornings, they’re either at work or school and come night time either they are indoors doing what they have done yesterday or out with friends doing what they will on the morrow.
Same talks, same jokes, same arguments, same fights, same people, same habits and one day, they wake up to find lines carved deep unto their faces whichever way they stroke, some missing teeth and a termination that is very, very near.
For this reason, worldly philosophers have described humans as beings asleep until they are met with death. And then they are brought to us. My name is irrelevant, my age is just a 2-digit number, and I work in a morgue. Just in case you hadn’t heard of one before, morgues are places of storage of human corpses. Every corpse is different. Fascinating, fascinating they are. So still, so quiet, like a soldier disarmed or a poisonous animal with deactivated venom, completely safe to approach, to get close to, to work with, to look at.. Beautiful, beautiful in every way, in the way they effortlessly lay, in the humility of their closed eyes, in the scars they have accumulated during their lives and the final fight. They’re beautiful in their smell; fresh lavender, they always smell of fresh lavenders because that’s what their washed with before the final good bye.
Ah.. look at this one, for instance. He makes my eyes squint and my lips curl upwards and nose blow a little extra air than usual as he lay weak like so on my table. He’s got the ‘triangle’ phenomenon common to my part of the world, where athletic wanna-bes blow their abdomens by countless hours in the gym with regular hard looking exercise.. and completely ignore the lower half. Silly people. I’ve met guys like him when he was the kind to walk and talk. He would have probably looked me up and down and smiled. Look who’s smiling now. Lying on my table so weak, so vulnerable to my doings, look, no, really look who’s smiling now. This is the problem of them people; they score one goal in their lives in a goal post with no goal keeper, or a torn net, or somebody else’s playground and their egos also take the same triangle shape as this body; wide shouldered and proud, yet weak footed and unstable. They run around chasing forgotten dreams, only to make new ones every morning to be forgotten again, they fool themselves to believe in wonderful tomorrows and bright futures and the possibility of peace only to be disappointed when darkness sets and yet to have the same foolish aspirations when it lifts, they invest time and effort and money to achieve useless things like the ‘triangle shape’ or say friends. Sigh. If only they could see themselves here. Lying nameless, striped of all silly accomplishments, stacked in numerical order in drawers waiting for disposal. Idiots.
But not me, no, I was always different, right from the beginning, special in a way; I knew I was not special at all. I didn’t waste my time misguiding myself that I was the right kind of different in the world, that yes, I do share many common similarities to the 7 billion of my kind that currently exist alongside; in the way I was created, the screamy bloody way I arrived into the world, the infancy and childhood I nor they have any recollection of, in the mountains and valleys of my body but no, somewhere between the lines of the so and so similarities, the minor differences I and they have will make of me an asset to the world; will push me to change ‘a world’. Silly thought, no? I shall never tell lies. Not to myself nor to even them. See, I didn’t kid myself the way my fellow Earth mates did: I was content with living a momentary life, to eat what my appetite told me it wanted, to sleep when my body felt tired, to skip school when I wanted to, to raise a hand if my anger called for it. After all, why try perfecting the story if the end chapter is already printed?
When I was young, my grandma Bless her foul soul used to tell all kinds of epic, made-up tales, mostly fiction about Gods and so on. She used to tell me “John Paxton Jr. those who have things unfinished on top of the sand will never find peace and be able to truly leave under the sand”. Bless her indeed; those illiterate tell the best tales, like that J.K. Rowling. I used to tell her, if the question indeed was to be or not to be, then of course not to be, of course not to be, why to be if you’re going to eventually not be? A trying life is a waste of rest.
Wait; let me open this drawer again… Ah… my favorite body of them all. Fat, no overweight, no obese. Overgrown untamed beard, un-shampooed hair. Hideous scars of physical fights. Yes, that’s a good one right there. I like looking at his body lay heavily there, at his fungus infected nails; his body has been the biggest challenge to preserve since the smallest of his bodily problems was his death. Am glad no one came to claim him (no one came to cry over his belly and waste my tissues). His ugly face wears a very sad expression though, as if he was too bummed death called him out of a fight. We would have been friends, for sure. Either ways, to hell with him and his thick body that requires so much effort to push in and out. Let me put him back and breathe for 5 minutes and sign today’s date next to his name to record the number of days he’s been here.
#23165 John Paxton. Jr Saturday 20/6/2015