Noise

Between Silence and Sound

I’ve died at least a thousand times

But one time, maybe twice, I died for real.

I rose above my broken body, rose above my pain

And peacefully I waited and watched,

No urgency from my perspective. Everything was calm.

Except in the real world, where panic had ensued.

But not my panic, it didn’t exist. At that moment

I guess I didn’t either. Or at least I disconnected.

Watching and waiting, I could see everything.

I could hear everything. I knew everything.

I knew nothing. It was silent. It was bliss.

If you die and return, it is like a rebirth.

I assume exactly the same—all cacophony and pain.

You relinquish certain solace for light.

Your comfort is stripped from you, as if it never existed

And in its place returns the chaos of life. And you realize

That we have it all mixed up. What we call order is chaos.

What we call life is an assault on the senses.

In death, there was peace—

But there wasn’t any punk rock.

With joy, Stephanie