02-24-2011, 02:45 PM
It is not wholly possible to explain what it is like to die.
Flowery language illustrating the sweeping crescendo of sweet azure light bathing the soul as it initiates its journey to the heavenly hereafter is a farce. A lie invented to comfort the survivors. "She may have passed on, but at least she did not suffer."
Fuck that.
Death is excruciating. It can be the the slow withering away to a cancer or blood disease. It can be the nondescript death during a nondescript slumber. It can be a shot to the chest on a battlefield. No matter how it happens, the experience is agonizing, horrendous, unbearable. That's why it's called death.
The body may not be in pain, but the mind screams in terror as the nerves lose their sensation and synapses dim. The human body is designed to adapt and survive. Every action we make has evolved from some means of protecting our lives. Death is biological failure.
A mind of its own is an apt phrase for the situation. The brain allows the consciousness to maintain its grip for a time, allows the wonderful final words and embarrassing final thoughts to flow forth. Oh god the oven is still on... I should have fucked him when I had the chance... I never learned a foreign language... I hope I don't shit myself... I'm sure I'll be fine; I’m sure they can save me...
Then the brain decides it has had enough. No more thoughts to understand, only pure, instinctual feeling. It has to focus. It has to survive. You are in the way. You are temporary and serve only to distract. You are finished.
It snatches control from your consciousness. You didn't know what to do with it, anyway. The brain examines every possible escape from demise, despite the distracting buzz from the last whimpers of your inner monologue. It will give you a quick burst of euphoria, one last pump of serotonin to make you feel warm and fuzzy for just one more moment. After that, it cuts you off. You're a thinking, experiencing person in touch with the world then a blink and you're just there. No real thoughts, just sensations without words without meaning without description.
This is when the brain can go to work. It's far from perfect, far from efficient at this point. It has few goals. Maintain vitals: heart and lungs. Remove from danger, remove from pain. Ignore extremities. Protect torso, protect head. Survive.
It's a lost cause and the brain knows it. The beautiful thing about the automatic response of the mind is that it just doesn't give up. So long as there's enough blood to carry enough oxygen to fuel enough impulses it will carry on living. It is the perfect machine trapped in an imperfect casing. The body will give out.
This is where the horror comes. The brain needs to focus; it lets the body go numb. It feels cold, so fucking cold. There is no way to respond to the torments - the brain has long since eliminated any sort of muscular reaction. The last fragments of humanity sense the urgency, the fear, the struggle. Panic. There is nothing to be done.
The last thing anybody feels before they really and truly die is a sense of failure. The brain realizes there is no hope. It could not accomplish the one purpose it had in its limited existence: survival. Everything is futile. No use trying anymore.
The last of the synapses blink out. No more senses. Only emptiness. Coldness. Death.
The body falls limp. Barely tensed muscles are released as the weary brain collapses. An arm slides to the dusty ground; her head sags. Eyes so full of life, so full of charm, so full of charisma are so empty, so dull, so void. There is nothing left.
The girl, the psychic, the chef, the friend becomes the husk. The body. The corpse.
She may have passed on, but at least she did not suffer.
Fuck that.
Flowery language illustrating the sweeping crescendo of sweet azure light bathing the soul as it initiates its journey to the heavenly hereafter is a farce. A lie invented to comfort the survivors. "She may have passed on, but at least she did not suffer."
Fuck that.
Death is excruciating. It can be the the slow withering away to a cancer or blood disease. It can be the nondescript death during a nondescript slumber. It can be a shot to the chest on a battlefield. No matter how it happens, the experience is agonizing, horrendous, unbearable. That's why it's called death.
The body may not be in pain, but the mind screams in terror as the nerves lose their sensation and synapses dim. The human body is designed to adapt and survive. Every action we make has evolved from some means of protecting our lives. Death is biological failure.
A mind of its own is an apt phrase for the situation. The brain allows the consciousness to maintain its grip for a time, allows the wonderful final words and embarrassing final thoughts to flow forth. Oh god the oven is still on... I should have fucked him when I had the chance... I never learned a foreign language... I hope I don't shit myself... I'm sure I'll be fine; I’m sure they can save me...
Then the brain decides it has had enough. No more thoughts to understand, only pure, instinctual feeling. It has to focus. It has to survive. You are in the way. You are temporary and serve only to distract. You are finished.
It snatches control from your consciousness. You didn't know what to do with it, anyway. The brain examines every possible escape from demise, despite the distracting buzz from the last whimpers of your inner monologue. It will give you a quick burst of euphoria, one last pump of serotonin to make you feel warm and fuzzy for just one more moment. After that, it cuts you off. You're a thinking, experiencing person in touch with the world then a blink and you're just there. No real thoughts, just sensations without words without meaning without description.
This is when the brain can go to work. It's far from perfect, far from efficient at this point. It has few goals. Maintain vitals: heart and lungs. Remove from danger, remove from pain. Ignore extremities. Protect torso, protect head. Survive.
It's a lost cause and the brain knows it. The beautiful thing about the automatic response of the mind is that it just doesn't give up. So long as there's enough blood to carry enough oxygen to fuel enough impulses it will carry on living. It is the perfect machine trapped in an imperfect casing. The body will give out.
This is where the horror comes. The brain needs to focus; it lets the body go numb. It feels cold, so fucking cold. There is no way to respond to the torments - the brain has long since eliminated any sort of muscular reaction. The last fragments of humanity sense the urgency, the fear, the struggle. Panic. There is nothing to be done.
The last thing anybody feels before they really and truly die is a sense of failure. The brain realizes there is no hope. It could not accomplish the one purpose it had in its limited existence: survival. Everything is futile. No use trying anymore.
The last of the synapses blink out. No more senses. Only emptiness. Coldness. Death.
The body falls limp. Barely tensed muscles are released as the weary brain collapses. An arm slides to the dusty ground; her head sags. Eyes so full of life, so full of charm, so full of charisma are so empty, so dull, so void. There is nothing left.
The girl, the psychic, the chef, the friend becomes the husk. The body. The corpse.
She may have passed on, but at least she did not suffer.
Fuck that.
[SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
If life gives you lemons, hand them to me!
I've got a great recipe for lemon meringue pie.
If life gives you lemons, hand them to me!
I've got a great recipe for lemon meringue pie.