You Won’t Know You’re Dead Until You Try It – Heath Ison

How can I say never? I don’t think you can put your trust in it.

I have an unrewarding monumental lead (atomic number 82) statue—about the size of a table lamp—of an unknown man on his knees, face hovering above a toilet with his fingers inserted into his mouth to induce vomiting.

I have love letters with no recipient listed. I used to think I had somewhat of an idea of where they came from and who wrote them. Now I can’t be too sure. But I still like to re-read them from time to time. The allusiveness and artificial yearning suffice for a heart throb or two. Exclusive. No sale, out of stock.

I’ve never actually written a single word in my life.

A Brief Observable Cognition Via The Isolation Simulator:

<A domain of deadly godless deviants wrapped up in a scathing cocoon of shards of glass and metallic fibers, unforgiving. God like yet un-god like renewing unforeseeable resurrections. Resurrections that once knew they had a purpose. But under the influence of the blind, cock-sucking, ego-forgettable numbed vessels, they forgot. They forgot their custom made heaven that they oh so anticipated. They are sexless. And fuckless. And brainless. But—I babble… it is through no fault of their own. They must come back to the seed of seeds. The seed of knowing of not knowing and knowing of knowing of becoming of knowing and knowing and knowing and knowing and DEATH>

I still have dreams that I anticipate on forgetting. That’s ok. Once they’re out there I’ll leave it up to the aether to store them in its celestial database of disregarded dreams. Dreams are always recorded somewhere, whether you like it or not. For the very few dreams I do remember, I have them transcribed in a blue notebook titled, Dream Journal Vol. 1. If they will ever have a use I cannot say.

I send e-mails to myself. Little reminders to be verified and go incomplete. Not always, though. I find I am capable from time to time. Human every now and again.

When I came to the point of life/death or slow death, I might have had a difficult time analyzing the pros and cons. A transition of unsurfacing. The man on the lead toilet statue stares at me. Taunts me. Reminds me of vomit on my shoes from yesterday and tomorrow. An unceasing endurance test conjured by another me.

A Brief Observable Cognition Via The Isolation Simulator:

<Stomach flu/stomach virus. They said: “No No No just love”. Love virus. A virus from decrepit dreams—God’s favorite love position. Bent over, bleeding inside and out, like an exposed wound in a reality where bandages don’t exist. Fucking unrighteously. Dying for no cause but the cause of dying. Lets pray: Pray for the wounds that bleed isolation and despair. Thank god for it!>

Months go by. Maybe months. Possibly lifetimes. I have nothing there so what is there to lack? I become the scent of dilated decay, hoping for a pain that kills the drug but yet an algorithm of dead-end equations. I used to think like this. And somewhere, some me—I still probably do.

Acquiring the attained skill of letting things happen. Should be easy. But like all things life contradicts itself. Shits on itself yet fertilizes itself.

From this view, at least, the lead man vomiting into toilet statue might be slowly turning gold.