There’s no benchmark for how life’s “supposed” to happen. There is no ideal world for you to wait around for. The world is always just what it is now, it’s up to you how you respond to it.
I am Dead, but it’s not so bad. I’ve learned to live with it.
The past is made out of facts… I guess the future is just hope.
…and we’ll see what happens when we say Yes while this rigor mortis world screams No.
Your dreamers. You ridiculous children. You dancing grinning fuckups. Here is your bright future. Your earnest, saccharine hope. How does it taste dripping from the neck of everyone you love?
My friend “M” says the irony of being a zombie is that everything is funny, but you can’t smile, because your lips have rotted off.
Why is it beautiful that humanity keeps coming back? So does herpes.
What’s wrong with people?” she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. “Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?
Mozart,” Julie says in a bitter chuckle, staring at the speaker. “It’s supposed to be the pinnacle of art, right? This transcendent human achievement? And we use it for background noise in bathrooms. We literally shit on it.
Music? Music is life! It’s physical emotion – you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow. Are you telling me, what, that it’s boring? You don’t have time for it?
In the darkest and strangest of places with the most macabre of company, this music moves her and her life pulses hard… And even for Julie’s safety, I can’t bring myself to smother it.
I don’t know what happened. Disease? War? Social collapse? Or was it just us? The Dead replacing the Living? I guess it’s not so important. Once you’ve arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.
What is left of us? … No countries, no cultures, no wars but still no peace. What’s at our core, then? What’s still squirming in our bones when everything else is stripped?
I mean obviously, staying alive is pretty fucking important . . . but there’s got to be something beyond that, right?
That’s why we have memory. And the opposite of memory— hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can built off our pasts and make future.
I wish I could read what she’s written there. Instead, I pretend the letters are stars. The words, constellations.
Even as I think them, the words lose their context, dissolve into grains of absurdity in the vast ocean of day-to-day hunger.
We will cry and bleed and lust and love, and we will cure death. We will be the cure. Because we want it.
…thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?
You should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. Memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident.
My mom used to say that’s why we have memory. And the opposite of memory—hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can build off our pasts and make futures.
Well we have to. We have to remember everything. If we don’t, by the time we grow up it’ll be gone forever.
I’m alone, stumbling through the city in the dark, trying not to let the night freeze my blood.
Sex, once a law as undisputed as gravity, has been disproved. The equation is erased, the blackboard broken
You can order yourself to treasure a moment, to cling tight to a feeling and never let it fade, but it’s your brain, that three-pound lump of hamburger, that makes the final call.
The ethics of eating people are blurry at best in the fog of my undead amnesia, but I expect more for such a high price. What I want are the moments I will never have. The warm ones. The living ones.
My mind has cleared a little; I’ve regained some instincts and associations, echoes of the Living world if not actual memories. Those I still have to steal.
I should stitch my mouth shut. Honesty is a compulsion that’s damned me more than once. But I just can’t hold it in anymore. The words build and explode out of me like an uncontainable sneeze.
What happened? How did I get here? How could I have known that my choices mattered?
Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.
Nora knows better than most that nothing lasts forever. Life doesn’t, love doesn’t, hope doesn’t, so why would death, hate, or despair? Nothing is permanent. Not even the end of the world.
The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. “There’s nothing left worth saying.
Maybe eventually winter will finish our job for us and end the world in ice instead of blood.
I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I’m drowning in ellipses.
Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.
The burning red taste of blood floods my mouth. The sparkle of life sprays out of his cells like citrus mist from an orange peel, and I suck it in.
I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
How do I appear unthreatening when her lover’s blood is running down my chin?
I feel the flatline of my existence disrupting, forming heartbeat hills and valleys
Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?
I’d like to sit down with him and pick his brain, just a tiny bite somewhere in the frontal lobe to get a taste of his thoughts” -Warm Bodies
There’s not really such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people, there’s just like…humanity. And it gets broken sometimes.
There is no ideal world for you to wait around for. The world is always just what it is now, and it’s up to you how you respond to it.
…wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.
… we shoved out many hopes and fears into their hands, believing those hands were strong because they had firm handshakes. They failed us, always. There was no way they could not fail us – they were human, and so were we.
It’s not about keeping up the population, it’s about passing on who we are and what we’ve learned, so things keep going. So we don’t just end.
Every experience, good or bad, is a priceless collector’s item.