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The cool thing about death is that you can become anything you want to be and go anywhere you want to go. And the best part is that you have no memory of who you ever were. Your mind is scrubbed immaculately clean. Your mind…becomes as beautiful as an embryo. And that universe out there, beyond the mind, is the best thing in the whole wide world.

I have die a thousand times. Sometimes I would be in a white room like my mother’s crisp, clean kitchen with white marble counter tops, pottery barn wicker chairs, and white crocheted linens. My soul, my consciousness, would be splayed out across the room in wonderment like mist, aware only of blowfish lungs inflating and deflating. And when I was dead, I wasn’t that body anymore. I was just awareness of watching it all from above. The exquisite whiteness.

White like snow on that one November day, six months ago. That day I was wearing that long, white, puffy winter jacket that always made him call me a marshmallow. On this particular day, there was a snow blizzard outside, and I was wearing my marshmallow jacket over a bikini and flip flops. He and I snuck into the hot tub on the deck of my condominium’s Rec center, ignoring the “Closed for Covid” sign. We reclined back in the warm, bubbling water, stuck out our tongues and let flakes of that gorgeous alabaster snow land on them. We talked about the future; buying an RV someday and driving it across country. That was always his dream. I thought it was insane, something old retired people would do. But I loved his passion. I loved that he was a free bird. I loved the way he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, smiling from ear to ear when he talked about it. I loved the thought of waking up next to him every single day, just him and me, lazy mornings making coffee, listening to podcasts as the RV lapped up mile after mile between the West and the East coast, parking on the side of the road to swim in every river, watch every glimmering sunset together while sipping on wine…

But when I was dead, and the room was all white, l I had no more memory of this. I had no memory of that ginger DJ who was all dimples, biceps, and big dick. Whose majestic jawline could cut cheese and whose blue eyes glimmered radiantly like serene alpine pools in the sun. No memory of me, his groupie #1, snorting lines in the outhouse every weekend behind the warehouses before his midnight sets. Me, getting too thin on a steady diet of tequila and ketamine.

And in this white room, there would sometimes be a song playing, but I wouldn’t know it was a song because I was dead. All I knew was the feeling of the music. Bliss. This orchestra of sound would send me flying down auditory tunnels of vibration, rhythm, and the cadences of voices and instruments. I would be enveloped in the sounds that heaven is made of.

The problem with this kind of death though, the not permanent kind, is that gravity always wins in the end, pulling you back into your wretched, fucking body…the place where memories are stored and play over and over and over again, until you heave your weak limbs up off of the bed, stumble across the room, grab that little bag of white powder and snort bumps off your car key. 6 if you just got it today. 12 if you’ve been dipping into it for a few days.