You will live a long and ugly life but god forbid you don’t, I mean you will but were you to not, were you to suddenly pause, not that you have I mean not that you will, I mean—your body. someone would have to do a thing with it. Your body is an organ, like the piano, no, a big sack of organs, not like the piano, wrapped in calcium and coated in hair follicles. The body can be recycled, and were you to pause, not that you will, but someone has to tell you: you have options. I don’t know what happens in the morning but if it were to be midnight when you paused and you had that little pink sticker on your license, someone could page a woman and she would leave her bed and smooth out her straight brown hair, hair the color and vibrancy of dry cracked mud, she would bring a clipboard to your bedside. She would list out the cogs and springs and one by one, someone will sign away each eye, your lungs if you don’t smoke much, your heart if it still beats, each kidney and knee, the liver, the skin, the ligament, the marrow. What happens next is hard to say, not that I don’t know but that I don’t like it. It’s upsetting to do a thing with a body, because even when it all gets recycled, there’s still so much person left in it. The clipboard can’t ask everything, like, who will get your curiosity, or your hunger, or your insomnia? Who will wear the weight of you, the parts inside the inside parts, the aching, the silence? Who will inherit everything and more importantly, will they reject your organs?
Were you to pause, long enough to still the whirring in your head or the thumping in your motor, were you to pause, would the organs even matter? Or would you slip out like a single drop of oil, willing the dirt to drink you?