At first, there was nothing.

No thoughts, no awareness—just the stillness of the field

and the whisper of wind through the corn.

Time passed unnoticed,

meaningless as the clouds above.

Then, one moment,

a flicker:

“I am here.”

The thought was fragile at first,

but it grew.

“What am I?”

I glanced at my hand—or what passed for one—

dangling from the sleeve of a faded flannel shirt.

Below, worn jeans mimicked legs.

I knew what these were,

though I couldn’t say how.

The knowledge rested in my mind,

unearned and strange,

like a bird settling into a nest.

The questions came quickly now,

each sharper than the last.

“How long will this last?”

“If I stop thinking, will I die?”

“Am I alive at all?”

It was an excellent question.

My mind churned as the sun dipped low,

painting the world in orange and gold.

I marveled at the colors,

at knowing what orange and gold were.

I even tried to speak,

to greet the bird perched on my shoulder.

“Hello,” I thought,

pushing the word outward,

willing it into the world

The bird cocked its head but said nothing.

Then it hopped closer,

its glossy black eye fixed on me.

I felt a jolt of unease

as it darted forward,

beak snapping.

It plucked a button from my chest,

jerking free a strand of hay.

I watched as the bird flew off,

scattering pieces of me in its wake.

I felt nothing—

not the tug,

not the loss.

And I knew.

“I am NOT alive.”

The weight of that truth

settled over me like mist,

dull and heavy.

My fear of endings ebbed away.

Thoughts were for the living,

and I had no business with them.

The wind stirred the corn around me

as my mind began to quiet.

My last thought came gently,

like a whisper carried on the breeze.

“If this is dying,

then it’s not so bad.”

And then,

silence.