Butterfly

Death is weird.

If you just take a moment to step back and disregard the emotional attachment that comes with death and see it for what it is.

Ceasing to exist.

A vacant, soulless body limp on the very earth you were born. In the body that you grew with.

I don’t know if you go to heaven or hell when you die.

Neither do you. Not really.

We place these vessels of expired carcasses in holes in the ground, adorned with extravagant coffins and velvet-lined padding as if the softness of the bed matters.

Do we know if we’re dead when we die? Because I don’t know if I’m asleep when I’m asleep.

And unless I’m dreaming, my sleep-filled nights are just empty. Not a lonely emptiness. Just a nonexistent time when my body regenerates.

Is that death?

The debate on whether or not we have souls has never made sense to me. Science can explain why we function in our body the way that we do, but the essence of the being within the body cannot be explained by anything other than a spirit or entity within.

Then death doesn’t make sense. If our being isn’t our body. We can just find a new vessel.

I hope I’m a butterfly next time.