A Bone Numbing Night

I lay dormant in darkness, waiting for nightfall, bones thrumming with anticipation. Once unsettling, the cold and damp environment that surrounds me has become something akin to home. 

Seeing all and nothing in this void, I know life better than any of you do. Even as I lie in waiting, my knowledge surpasses those who dare to refuse to acknowledge me, to walk over me. Fear not, you’ll catch up to me one day. Everyone will, as no one is immune to this fate. 

It grows closer, the time of escape. Suspense pollutes the stale air as my youngest neighbors fall victim to the yearning we bear—a chance to feel alive after experiencing the wastelands of purgatory. 

Silence has never been so deafening. 

Eternity has an expiration date. The strongest foundations wither and collapse over time. It’s inescapable. Acceptance is a difficult feat as now some of the others around me remain in denial. Even as everything they once knew crumbles into dust. 

Sunshine to moonshine, light to shadow, day swiftly becomes night. 

Time never halts. The moment is now. With a well-practiced push, the lid of my prison opens. Climbing to the surface, my fingers cling to the dirt around me. Slowly ascending to the surface. 

Dirt crumbles beneath my fingers as I claw my way through the soil. The cold air feels like the first shock from the chair before you surrender to the immense pain. 

Alas, I’m reminiscing. 

I stand on my off-tone yellowing feet, stretching the muscles that no longer exist. What’s left of me is nothing but bone and a little soul. Several bodies are emerging from what should have been their eternal resting place. 

Everyone is in different stages of decomposition. Pretty funeral faces don’t last long. Most are only skeletal at this point, but there are the fortunate few that still have a considerable amount of skin left. Then there are the few that are hanging on to fleshy shells by a strand or two. 

They’ll lose their identity soon enough.

Self is an essential concept for living. The dead on the other hand, not as much. We all share the same destination. Why would individuality matter when you’re six feet under? 

On this frigid night, the dead become alive. 

Under the moon, we dance. The swaying trees and howling breeze as our music. A danse macabre, if you will. Tomorrow we will be nothing but memories in the minds that once loved us. So, I will continue to dance until there is nothing but dust, teeth, and residue of fluid in my coffin. 

After all, I would hate to rest in peace.