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Maybe this is why I sleep only a few hours a month. I don't want to die again. This has become clearer and clearer to me recently, a desire so sharp and focused I can hardly believe it's mine: I don't want to die. I don't want to disappear. I want to stay.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Stay
Recently
Sleep
Month
Maybe
Hardly
Dies
Disappear
Hours
Focused
Desire
Mines
Become
Mine
Clearer
Believe
Months
Sharp

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But it does make me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else's, because I'd like to love them, but I don't know who they are.
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That's why we have memory. And the opposite of memory— hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can built off our pasts and make future.
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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.
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Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
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Life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present, and future all at once.
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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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One mistake, one brief lapse of my new found judgement-that's all it took to unravel everything. What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature.
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It was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
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...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?
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In my mind I am eloquent I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.
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I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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You might say that death has relaxed me.
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Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.
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Came to . . . see you.” “But I had to go home, remember? You were supposed to say good-bye.” “Don't know why you . . . say good-bye. I say . . . hello.” Her lip quivers between reactions, but she ends up with a reluctant smile. “God you're a cheeseball. But seriously, R—
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We have to remember everything. If we don't, by the time we grow up it'll be gone forever.
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You know things are moving. You're changing, you fellow Dead are changing, the world is ready for something miraculous. What are we waiting for?
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What's wrong with people? she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?
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I wince at her use of the word human. I've never liked that differentiation. She is living and I'm dead, but we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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