Ouroboros And The Wolf

So I was dead. Really, really dead. It’s hard not to die, lying on the bottom of the Southern Ocean. Quite easy, actually. But I was cool with that. I didn’t think I would be, but once you’re over the hump, the actual dy-ing part, it’s hard to imagine anything else. Literally impossible, actually.

Death isn’t what I thought it would be. It’s not nothing, but it’s not personal, either. When you die you kind of rejoin this Great Big Thing that you were cleaved from at the beginning of your life… where all the other things and all the possibilities gather to not exist in one giant, weird, eternal instant. It’s hard to explain, but you kind of become this ultimate, pure truth. And it’s very quiet there. So, so, so, so quiet.

Naturally, coming back from that kind of sucks.

In one moment I’m hobnobbing with the universe, and in the next I’m wrenched loose, like a giant drain hole had opened up and let my consciousness sluice out and swell into my old flesh.

Feelings and memories rushed back. A sharp note struck my ears, pitching upward, like some electronic device screaming to life. And from out of that eternal darkness: colors… things… slowly appeared. Earth tones. Wood and stone. Iron, wooden planks. Rusted cans with old labels.

What is this place?

Then a familiar face ebbed into view. A face that explained it all. Gray, oblong. Those nasty, ragged teeth. And those eyes. Those, giant, stupid eyes.

“Hello, Chikushou.”

Spegg, you motherfucker.