Corpse

He carries his corpse, walking indefinitely and aimlessly.

I carry my own corpse on my back. He is shuddering, breaking off at the flesh, and green, bloating up. He shudders in the cold and groans at the slightest mention of the sun rising at its peak. He chafes against my back and his moaning complains at that too; like he's complaining in some shot of normalcy, trying his hand at the affording. I catch him blinking once or twice, foaming at the mouth. He eyes the sunset sentimentally, and we both may never swim in it. I don't mean that figuratively; no birds can do the same. It's just a trick of the light. But perhaps my thinking seals it so... Nevertheless, he counts the clouds and I wonder if it's a feature of wonder or boredom, or both. I suppose he'd envy them for that, those birds. I cover him from time to time, when it hurts too much to see him. I am him and he is me.

"Quiet now, wear the yellow shroud for now."

And I'm sorry if it makes you feel like I'm burying you prematurely, my friend, but I should have long ago. But it begs the question if you should bury a living man. The sight appalls me, but he is human; even if he is barely so. I take another step:

'I am still here, with my heart beating,

And he is everything I refuse to feel.'

I'll suffocate if I bury him underground. And when it's quiet, I feel the mucus of my rotting lungs settling, and piling up.
I made this deal a long time ago, when I decided I needed to walk somehow, to reach that hallowed promise. It's a town supposedly not so far from here, where there is music and wine and other people. No... that's not true.

He is me from a different life and a different time, who knew terror in the night. We are split in two, a hiccup in time that drew the border and that separated like cells. He, is who said "that's enough", and passed the mantle to me. I hate him sometimes, for making me feel like I didn't suffer. And I have to suffer more, now. I don't understand the significance, and the weight of the night. And I don't know why I have to walk. We shared the same dreams once, and sometimes I'd bet he feels the senselessness like me, but we don't share the same passion (though his is barely so). He's too tired. And I'm sorry for that, my friend. But please, stop muttering. I can't stand the mucus in your throat.

But what I've said is half true, about the music and the wine. It's only that I've given up on that promise, and only walk to walk. I do it to forget who I am and the other things that I've seen, and those remnants of him (for I am him and he is me). And I do as I do though I impress upon another situation from time to time that echoes in the hallways of my memories, that looks like a demon I knew; another snake, another angry ravine. And it does make me feel alive, makes me feel another shot of home at the chaos. Another shot...

"While I still can," I repeat to myself, "while I still can." There are people out there who sing, supposedly. But I think that I'm the last man alive, or that I have to believe it. And I take this instead, and find company in the mind-melting quiet that gives the comfort in a graceful, musical resignation: the way you'd look at the sunset on your final day.

I find the music and the men when the rattlesnake rattles, and I lunge. And when its blood is on my hands I enjoy the warmth and settle in it. And I hope you'd forgive me for being cruel, rattlesnake. "Another day to be alive", I chuckle quietly, against the backdrop of the pin-drop loneliness, grateful for a moment. Gratefulness that will turn sour, gratefulness for the ungratefulness; ungratefulness for gratefulness...

My eyesight is graying, it's part of that deal... There's an allocated time before he'd fuse into me. A certain situation I don't have the pleasure of knowing, that will make him merge into me. His eyelids are almost gone, and for some reason, one day, the only thing he'll do is see. I wonder how that'll be, then, and how we'll move.

And he does see. He does, mostly, and spends his time in terror. God, I was him, once. I am this... New body, now. We are not so apart as I'd like us to be, the thin membrane separating us is the act of recollection, though living separately complicates things. I'd rather not remember, though sometimes, in secret, I wish I did. I wish I had the courage. I wish I had the time. I do, it's just... I'd rather wrestle the snakes.

I split my own life in two, courtesy of the grim reaper. He told me, once upon a time, "It's open season, up here, and full of chances." And I said, "Eh?" He told me, "You find yourself upon heavens and hells, a whole lot of barren land, and to a degree you choose your own,"

"You tried to take your life but I won't allow it. I'll bring a degree of that infamous divinity marked by the afterlife to feel that God you both can't feel, and forsake. And now, I'll let you really experience it all now without ambiguity, and give you a bit of magic."

I thought to myself,

'Didn't I have enough?'

He continued.

"I know this life of yours seems unreal already, the world wasn't always like this. But I'll introduce an element of some fantasy, to show you how real it is."

I shed a tear, and try to remain amicable, chest heaving like before, when I was about to pull the trigger.

"And things are always at stake?"

"And things are always at stake."

I never saw him again.

When the sun gets tired and stretches the knots of her muscles in the quiet of the night, we switch places. (And was the grim reaper, God, or devil? Or maybe he was human, the mark of all three.) My corpse rattles like that snake when it's time, and I wonder if he anticipates. If he thinks it's like ripping a band-aid to feel sentient in a different way, or enjoys it just a little.

He switches into me, and absentmindedly he stops in the body I now house. He settles among the rocks. He gathers wood silently, skins a rabbit in despondent calm, and slowly cuts at the flesh, before it reaches his mouth. He is disconnected and quiet. And then, he lies, watching the sky; his hands interlaced and settled on his abdomen. Sometimes he sheds a single tear. I don't understand him. He never covers my face and always pillows up my head. I imagine he was kinder, once. But I cannot imagine how kind.

Maybe one day, I'll be a bit rotten and he'll be put together, and we'll blink.

One moment: Darkness.

One moment: Stars.

And over again.

And over, and over, and over again.

I just don't know how to get there.

I don't know if he can feel the warmth of the fire. Sometimes, I wonder if I do too. He sleeps, and snores, and when he wakes up, he's back to me.

And I'm back to him.

And I start walking again.