“Leave love bleeding in my hands…” Hemorrhage by Fuel
Being dead is one strange trip. It keeps me busy yet still I often wonder what my life could be like beyond this earthly crypt. Some of the cruel, gossip-prone spirits inform me that my family are presently alive out there in the “real world”, yet I can’t fully rely on that as my mind has always been fond of playing little tricks on me. I wish I could go see for myself instead of lying here dead… but ignorance will always be one of the conditions of the departed.
I have a seemingly endless abundance of time now to recline here in my coffin. I try to imagine what my life would be like had I not ended up a murder victim. In my upper 50’s I’d be a Dad with two grown daughters, the thought causing my dried up old bones to rattle with laughter! Like I said “It’s a trip to be dead!” I’d in my mind be at home in the big LBC with Rosie and our daughters Lottie Bell and Mary Bea… its tuff to realize that my chicks’ seem to have forsaken me here in my eternal void.
If I were “at home,” and not here kicking it with fools, dead guys and demons, I think by now I’d have learned how to be a husband and a father. I wish I could show my girls that for many years I haven’t been the thief and dope fiend who I was when the world saw me last; right before I was killed. It’s been decades since I was the lie-chasing wastrel who existed in the dope spoon of loss. Languishing here, I picture a home I never knew with pretty Rose Mary kissing me as I step through the door. Lottie Bell would be upstairs in her room and the lil sweet one Mary Bea playing with her dog in the back yard. As a kid of the 1960s I was taught that `Father Knows Best` and now that I am dead finally I can dig such a naïve and idealistic concept of… home.
I’ve heard it said on occasion that our minds possess the inherent strength, as well as weakness, which enables us to turn a heaven into hell or transform a hell into heaven. As I wait here in purgatory I struggle with the fear that my perdition is actually a cleverly disguised version of hell, created to fool me into deeper confusion. So...I wile away my countless days spinning daydreams that will treat me kindly and I want to feel closer to heaven as those visions touch my heart.
But every coin and every face has at least two sides; and the other side of my kind daydreams is my dark recurring nightmares. When the dark comes to blanket me I dread to realize that my nightmare will be every bit as cruel as my daydreams were kind. The darkness isn’t any kind of dream at all; rather it’s only a replaying loop of memory of the final days leading up to my murder. My nightmare torments and tortures me and won’t allow me much rest. Being dead I long for the promise to rest in peace, yet the freak show of my memory won’t stop