Fragments of the Former

I sit here, fermenting and faded, my jaw slack and eyes milky-white with glazed detachment.

My spirit lingers somewhere in my peripheral, mocking me in its fleeting existence between the physical and other. Occasionally I feel it dart from the stale air, through old damp wood and into fresh, foggy mornings. The low clouds sometimes roll through the gaps and cloak me, drifting to place small beads of water on my brow as if I sweat again despite the morning chill.

I don't really recall what was before; who or why or how all seem arbitrary. I think there was more and I know it probably felt integral to my formative self but now what is just is.

#

I wonder if my flesh form has bound my essence to this place in some kind of punishment or lesson and it is fated to remain here whilst my withering corpse plays at being a decoration without any cares left, a coalesced point of indifference towards finding retribution or reason.

Is there meaning in death once it has occurred? Is this punishment or just what becomes of us after? None of these questions matter to me now. They are blinking thoughts as fascinating as dust caught in the sun, or ants wandering about their business beneath my feet.

I cannot tell if the colours are naturally more muted here or if the perception through filmy eyes cannot draw in enough light anymore to see them truly. Sounds are also muffled, but there is not much to make sound here either.

There is one small span of the wall I can see and, by whatever grace has been bestowed on me, it happens to be a section where one of the slats of wood has fallen away, leaving me with a glimpse of the sky. In this fogged hour it is a swirling grey but I have been blessed again with the vision of a red-breasted robin to sing the sunlight through.

It is perched and twitching in agitation as it calls its grievances to the world. I find myself silently hoping that my other half, my lingering spirit, does not frighten it away by accident; or through some inconsiderate interaction that would surely not impress the tiny bird.

#

I sway between grateful and exasperated that the two fragments of myself are forced to exist apart, detached but ever present within the vague perimeter of this ageing barn. The walls themselves occasionally sigh with disdain towards its constantly irritated inhabitants.

I struggle to remember the confines of human perception enough to truly be angered by my predicament, I have moved past that; simply becoming a hollow shell of faint memories of the person I once was. I understand the basic concept of jealousy enough to know that if I had maintained my emotional understanding I would be brought to a rage at how unjust this split between soul and body is.

Here I sit, in a perpetual state of decay; unable to move, to feel, to close my damn mouth to stop the flies from making a home within it. Yet there flits my soul, ignorant to my requests to not disturb the bird, dancing in the small stream of light that pours through the crack now. My frustration was a dull echo of what I once would have mustered as I stared in empty regret at the bobbing flight of the retreating robin. I could guess at its confusion towards the invisible force that had disturbed it. Had I the connection to my muscles still, I would use them all to frown at that unthinking wisp, now mimicking the staggered flight across the width of the barn.

#

I have often contemplated what keeps that part of me here, I would have left by now if my body still obeyed my orders but I have been stuck here for however long, disappearing in small sections as the elements or other messengers of nature take me piece by piece to somewhere else. I can understand the boredom and frustration that I remember, reflected within the aimless movements of that misty form of mine but more and more, with every day that passes, I feel the remnants of thought that remain within my flesh form fade. It gets harder to recall things, harder to consider the world outside the small frame of it that I can still see. I am thankful that those windows for my brain still work at all but I can feel the greying edges creeping closer. It is a peaceful fade, a slow descent into nothing. I hope that when it is finally complete the rest of me can move on peacefully, or at least be released from its hold on this barn, this place, this body.

#

Time had become irrelevant for they could no longer bear witness to its passing. Colour had faded long ago until sight slipped away and everything was silent. Their last thought was of peace, an acceptance within the total emptiness. Had they still been able to comprehend the affairs of the world they may have been conflicted on their final interactions with the mortal setting.

Their body was discovered strung from the beams of the hayloft, gently swinging, long dead, and in moderate decay—much to the disturbance of those who uncovered them.

A preacher may call witness to the sin and pray to banish such heathenism to purgatory, perhaps that was their existence for a time, retribution in their observation of the moments beyond their end—or perhaps death is simply as existentially bereft of meaning as the bones that shuck their casings.

As they were laid to their final rest under the careful observation of their disembodied form, they were finally set free to wander ever-more and as such, may a sinner find their way home.

Perhaps their passing would grant a boon of energy to the wiccan folk who sought such things, perhaps it would all just fade to naught. Though every so often, a small robin and a playful spirit would flit through that old barn, and remember.