“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.”

- Isaac Asimov

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I don’t mind death, it’s nice, peaceful. It’s not heaven, but it’s not life either and I’m not really sure where I am, or whether I’m alone here. Either way it’s nice, and I don’t really care. Life was different, very different, but not in a bad way.

Life was bright, made of vibrant colors, burning. Wild and unpredictable and death is more of a sweet stagnance. Quiet, made of grays and pale it’s a calm sort of predictability altered only by random thought. I like it here and I liked life, mostly. Seems like I like most places.

In fact there’s only one place I don’t like. I suppose I could call it limbo, where I watched the last of life squeeze itself from me from behind silky cobwebs surrounded by other almost-corpses. We were all looking at the same spot, and we were all seeing different things, but occasionally flakes of another’s end would disturb my own.

All the while people were being ripped through the crowd as they died. I know now that death is a nice place, I didn’t know that then and as people were bodily hauled through the edges of this reality it didn’t seem likely.

I understand why we were dragged away, because as soon as my body died I couldn’t move. I hadn’t been moving anyways, as horrified as I was by what I was watching, peaceful as it was, but the disconnection that came after I died was almost painful, like I’d been skinned and my mind was absent, desperately trying to reconnect.

I’m dead now, and I never thought I’d be grateful, but I am.