When I think of death, I dont think of tears. I don’t think of blood, or worms, or rotting bodies. I don’t think of heaven, I don’t think of hell. I don’t believe humans should think of death as an end, but rather as a beginning.

I think…Death is the renewal of magic in the air, the renewal of Mother Nature’s children. Death doesn’t hinder a person, it only changes them. They’ll never be the same again, but they’re still there, because once you’re here, there’s no where else you could go.

Think of death as energy. Energy is neither created nor destroyed. It’s in a constant cycle. When people die, they were neither new nor did they live. We are all of the same backbone, and when we die, we return that backbone into the earth, for another to use, another life to continue,another life to begin.

In order for the human race to continue, space must be made, and there’s no other way to do it other than with death.

And death isn’t racist. Death isn’t biased. Death doesn’t give a damn if you’re black or white, yellow or red. Death doesn’t care if you had an education. Death doesn’t care if you never got married, never had children, never turned 18. Death only sees a number. That, is the saddest part of death.

But in saddness, you will find happiness. In every disaster, there is a speck of gold,waiting to be uncovered, to shine a warm light over your heart and renew your faith.  And after you feel death come and steal from you, remember that it’s only doing it’s job. Instead of crying over the dead, over something that could never be undone, look around you. Open your eyes to the happiness of the world; The vast,myserious,and blue oceans. Caramel colored puppies. Cotton Candy. Sunsets of tints.

People die everyday, and nothing can be done about that. What is most important to learn from death is that the living must continue, must move forward with valor, face the dark villain some day in the future, and try to accomplish your purpose for making that first loud cry, that first,sweet wink.

The windows were up and the wind soaring past the huge metal doors beckoned to thrust into his face. The truck driver ignored the low whooshing sounds outside and kept his concentration on the road. His right hand was firmly placed on the manual and the other at 12 o’ clock on the steering wheel. His thoughts, however, quickly drifted towards his huge hunger. The truck driver was a hefty glutton. In fact, the gut barely fit in the seat, and even with the seat as back as it could go, he was still pressed for space. He was a huge man of large proportions; Not exactly obese, but more of a fit,overweight person. Images of dinner made home in his mind. His wife had always cooked generous portions of food for him, since he was the ‘man of the house’. With nostalgia, he remembered shoving food into his face and going through plates like a castaway just returned home. With little or no judgment, he turned a dicey, evasive shift to the left into a Flying J, hoping to get his hands on some delicious,hot food.

When he entered, the truck driver couldn’t help but buy a bit of everything.  At the table, he sat alone, picking and voraciously consuming chicken, ramen, rice, and deserts. The man ate three times his size. Finishing up, he hastily threw away his tray, dropping a few items to the ground but paying no attention to them. An attendant shot him an evil look and picked up, reluctantly, after the truck driver.

———-

At home, his step daughter sat at his table, rejoicing in his monthly disappearance. Her brother too, rejoiced. The house was much more quiet in his absence. Together, they sat at his supposed table and ate dinner. Sitting across from each other, they recalled the countless times they had seen their disgusting step father slurp up food like a vacuum, leaving pieces all over the table and himself. It sickened them so much, they thought about going somewhere else to eat, but stayed out of spite. Sometimes, while he ate, his food would end up on their plates, stealing their appetites for the rest of the day. The truck driver would then enjoy their food, eating it up like a vortex. His wife has always told him that he shouldn’t eat so quickly or so much, but despite her concern, the man contorted his face like a pig and ignored her advice.  He was always ill-mannered anyway, and they had all become accustomed to his dirty way of living. None of them would ever want to be seen with him in public because he always made a spectacle of everything, and claimed that yelling was his only pitch of voice and that they would have to deal with that. The young girl mouthed the words I hate him to her brother, who only nodded in approval.

————

Back on the road, the truck driver felt at ease. He was overly full and contented. He was a solo driver, so he never had to share his food with anyone. He was glad that, according to himself, no one was compatible with him. Truth be told, no one could stand him and all refused to drive with him. Feeling a bit lonely, he stretched his left arm to pick up the phone on the side of the steering wheel, hoping to ring his wife. He felt his left arm had become weak and was tingly all over. It was in hot pain. He thought that was very strange and new to him, but only ignored it. He flipped the phone open, and with his right hand on the wheel, used his left to try to dial the numbers. There was not much strength in his arm and he was having difficulty pushing the buttons. There was a surge of pain in his chest, and his muscles tightened. He dropped the phone on the floor and clutched his breast. He tried to calm himself down and tried to keep focusing on the road. Another pang of shock hit his chest, this time compiled onto the left side. He clutched even harder now, his eyes widened with fear, and his face became pallid in mere seconds. Seconds later, another jolt of pain, and his head shot back in discomfort. He winced his face in pain, the wrinkles around his eyes over emphasizing his age. His eyes opened quickly again and glared at the road with fierce intensity. Now he knew he needed to get off the road, and figured this would be simple since there was no one else but him driving. He tried to let go of his chest, but the shock returned causing him to bring his hand back immediately.

He looked towards the sky and prayed that the heavens would help him. There was no answer. He gasped for air. There seemed to be something obstructing his air way and his chest tightened more and more. He placed his right hand on his throat, trying to alleviate whatever was blocking him from breathing. The muscles in his chest released and then pushed together with even more force. On his face was the look of utter trepidation and his eyes looked like they were about to fly out of their sockets. He no longer had his hands on any of the truck’s controls and it was slowly turning itself to the left, going at nearly 80 miles per hour. He tried to takes his hands off of himself but there was some invisible power keeping them glued to his body. The truck made a sharp twist to the left and now the truck was teetering on it’s side. Loud sparks emanated from the metal body scraping across the imperfect pavement. The beautiful sparks resembled a very grave fireworks display, but it was aesthetic in its own way. Inside the truck cabin, the driver had slammed his head into the car door and red was leaking from every orifice on his face, mingling with the salty tears of emotional and physical pain. Finally, the sparks created a squealing fire that engrossed the gigantic metal creature. The truck driver had finally realized that he was suffering from a heart attack and that this was the end of his life. In his head, the past few minutes replayed over and over again. He thought not of those that mattered most to him, he did not ask the heavens for any more help, and instead thought of where he went wrong in life to end up like this. With the last shivering gasp of breath he gave, he saw the image of himself reflected as a young child, and in the moment, the hot metal burst apart in a release of determination.

———-

His step children were playing outside when they looked at each other and felt horribly uneasy. They questioned each other but dismissed their emotions and kept on playing. Their mother rushed outside, phone in hand, yelling and screaming at them, tears rushing down her eyes. She dropped the phone and her children ran to her in the hopes of consoling her. They draped themselves over her, and from the other side of her shoulders, stared at each other with a look of indifference on their faces. The police had arrived to take her down to the morgue to confirm the body. The two siblings watched as the police car rounded the corner, standing in the middle of the street, listening to the silence of a new eternal quiet.

I’ve never had good bathroom memories. I’ve always had bad bathroom experiences. Ever since the first,fateful day I sat butt on a toilet seat, it seemed I would be destined to be plagued at my most private moment. Oh, how public bathrooms are my enemies. But of course, it’s never my fault that going to a public restroom sucks…It’s mostly just everyone else.

So here is the normal scenario.

There I am, in the most vulnerable of vulnerable positions, sitting quite complacent, or sometimes hovering, over the porcelain bowl. No one is there; It’s just me, some toilet paper, and the stalls. How nice it is, I’ll be thinking, to have this time alone to myself. Of course, the door gives an awful creak and slams back into position, and there’s the click clock of high heel shoes. Of course, this woman must notice that all but one of the bathroom stalls are slightly ajar, and like a threatened rhino, she rams into my door like the world is under a nuclear attack and attempts to mash the door down. Is there some sort of pheromone dripping off my stall or a neon sign over my door that says “Empiest Stall Possible”? What mental illness must one have that they are attract to closed doors. Perhaps a phobia of opened doors?  I don’t buy it.

Either way, how about a simple ol’ knock? Just a light tap. However, some people take this as an excuse to bang the hell out of the stall door, causing a mild heart attack mid-poop.  Tap lightly people; Don’t bang so hard that you literally scare the shat of the victim.

And then there’s always the case of the broken door lock. Sometimes it works, and you have to jam it, or take off your shoe and attempt to hammer it into place. Then the lock is non-existent, and this brings up a good amount of problems.  As a girl, I know for a fact that my arms don’t reach far enough in front of me to hold the door shut. So when rhino comes a-ramming, she’s got a great shot at my head. And once again, just….knock.

Oh, my experiences. What…nostalgia. One of my favorites would be of a time I used the restroom at the flea market(tons of memories there). I was sitting on the toilet, after spending five minutes doing some heavy paper lining, and this band of little children come in, exactly seven(you’ll see why I’m so precise soon enough).  So I thought to myself how very normal it is to be sitting and have people come into a public restroom. There was the weird shuffling of pants on the tile floor, and the sound(or rather,sounds) kept coming closer closer, until a small head popped out of the right side of my stall. It was a young boy and he didn’t even bother to stop. He kept on trucking, followed by another child, and another, and another. None of them stopped to even acknowledge me, so I sat there in odd amazement. When the seventh child came through my stall, he stopped and stared at me for about 5 seconds, and then kept on going. There was loud giggling from outside the stalls and they all rushed out…and whoever was last, turned the lights off. Now I’m having a panic attack because I keep thinking there are murders in the stall next to me, so I bunch up some toilet paper, flush and run out to open the door and try to find the light switch. I’m guessing those little tots thought there was no one there, except for that last one(or maybe he was blind).

So here’s the deal. Next time you go to a public restroom, and all the doors are locked, take a moment to knock. Or if you’re too shy to knock, like me, then try to look under the door for a pair of shoes, usually a tell-tale sign that there’s someone in there. And if you can’t tell because the doors reach the ground, lean close and try to listen for noise within the stall.

If anything, just hold it.