I don't believe in transcendence, not really. All experience paints one big circle around the larger issue of being alive. I lie and say that I try very hard to look in the mirror, and I get points for saying this, and people can, if they want, believe that I try very hard. I don't. Footsteps in the snow-the kind of ephemeralism that I am trying to avoid here. Glaring suggestions of life, proof of existence, ghosts of desire, melting. This charade of apathy can protect me from this melting, I say, I'm nonchalant. I'm relaxed. And other such lies.

What is life beyond death? I could tell you, if you wanted to know. I'm obligated to tell you that this is very heavy, this stone, and there aren't very many good ways to hold it properly, and that if you drop it, I think that would probably be bad. What is life beyond death? I watch my reflection walk away from me, into the freshly fallen snow. It says nothing. I say nothing. It leaves no mark, and that is a small mercy.

There cannot be transcendence if there is not a state to transcend. I think this to myself very loudly, like the noise of consciousness will scare away fear. There is only this world. Do not pass GO. There is only this. I put my blue fingers into my mouth and try to whistle like my dad taught me. That girl is not me, but I assumed I would remember the how. My lips are too dry or my breath is too weak or the sound of my thinking is too loud to even hear the whistle. My mouth is warmer than the air, though, so I consider the act of curling into myself through my mouth like the snake eating its tail. This is very impractical, if at all possible. I take a second to leave a stone on the grave of the idea, anyway, giving me that familiar heart tug.

The mirror is not a mirror. This had occurred to me. Without reflection, it is simply purposeless. Perhaps, then, it would be kind to shatter it. I lift my fist.

king of hearts