My soul is a metamorphosis chamber. I am a different person at each
moment. Different chemical composition, different form, different mental
awareness. There is no extendable weaved fabric of my existence. "I" as
I know it, don't exist. (or more accurately, given this proposition, does not exist) I'm only recognizable by my past
representation, which is not a constant structure but a
leaping form created via connect-the-dots.
So in this way, it's no longer true to me that there is life beyond death. It is no longer a lucid option for me to believe while the rest of my rationality decides to busy itself with the factory processes of life. I don't think souls will take off into the bright day, light as paradise birds, tranquil as sound waters. When the wind changes direction and the hanging willows begin to speak, the pond will ripple with distress as birds dart for their nests. The emptiness of day will be replaced by the black of night, and by dawn the world will open its blind eyes to reflect in its opal breast: a whirring, drifting slumber of dreams.
When I die, I'm going to disappear. The world will end for me, and it will no longer exist. I will no longer be aware of myself, or anything. Time will release me from its metaphysical fabric, and I will vanish.