proximoception | (no subject)

When dying I felt the light pass from my cheek and my cheek pass from my face and my face pass and I realized it was still with the light and with the rest of me, that I was now in the past and that that was me and this wasn't, and I turned back and there I was being all the me's I ever was and doing all the things I ever did, all at once, all of me together, both moving and not moving, the sight's passage among similar stationary things creating the illusion of perpetual movement, like a film plays, but with the choice all mine as to which direction to go in and what to linger on, what to run the fingers of my mind back and forth through, best loving moments of great pain, great relief, great hope, great remembrance, but loving most of all those early times when the inside of a Christmas tree was a mystery, when sideroads seen low through car windows might have been going anywhere, when the anywhere they might have gone was something my ignorance handed to my imagination, which handed it to my awe, and when every person had the capacity to turn my world inside-out five times in a single conversation, so overwhelmingly that I'd run to my room to construct out of curtains and toys and lip-smackings a world that made sense, convinced nothing else ever would.