So you want to put a recall out on this line of glass; haul it all into the shop and demand a refund, or at least an explanation: why can’t you find yourself?
It might help if you stopped only looking at your eyes. Step back a little – see the burns at your throat – the trail of dried spittle at your lips. You know, the reason you can’t breathe goes a little past a standard anxiety attack.
Blame the mirror, blame the coroner, blame your horoscope. For god’s sake don’t start to wonder where the rope came from or who put it around your neck.
If you want wings or a tail – a nice afterlife, or perhaps a reincarnation – you’d better be prepared to rot a little first.
Until you admit you’re dead, you’re only a ghost, and no one can see you.
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