// M O N O L O G U E S // L O V E

[sammy,]

a collection of monologues

seven minutes

replaceable

home

memories

terror

[sammy,]

the human life is so incredibly fragile. it breaks with a word, the touch of another human, a thought, an emotion or an image.
i should know. i have walked the grounds of battle and carried away the souls of those who were once so belligerent and ambitious, reduced to empty shells of the memories they once carried. i have looked evil dictators in the eye and twisted their plans to my liking. i've stood and watched as entire civilisations crumbled as a result of my never-ending wrath.
i am the best friend of war and yet also its greatest enemy.
for i am death.
the average age of death in the united kingdom is 81 years old. that's twenty nine thousand, five hundred and sixty five days of life. that's seven hundred and nine thousand, five hundred and sixty hours of everything, and then nothing. everything we do is another step closer to the end.

but what really is the end?
to many, death is not the end of a book, but rather the end of a chapter. perhaps life is simply the prologue of the book under your name.
many religions see death as a new beginning, a chance of the afterlife, a plan b.
for those who aren't religious, death is both a burden and a fact of life to look forward to but not in the morbid sense of course..

..for humans crave knowledge. they wish to know everything about everything. but the only people who truly know what happens after life are dead, so is it such a surprise that people crave knowledge so much that they will go to such drastic measures for enlightenment?
as the saying goes: curiosity killed the cat.
but in this case, satisfaction didn't bring it back.

moving on.

after death we have seven minutes of brain activity. this is believed to be seven minutes of your brain recounting your memories, so vividly that you wouldn't even realise that they were just memories.
they would move like water. as you experienced them, they'd feel like an iceberg, drifting across a placid ocean, but when you looked back on them, they would be like vapour. untouchable. unrecognisable as the iceberg it once was.
now, think of how quickly you seemed to have aged, how clearly you might recall being seven.
feels like you were ten just yesterday, right?
you see, the seven minutes wouldn't feel like seven minutes to one experiencing them; they'd feel more like seven hundred and nine thousand, five hundred and sixty hours.
so is it so implausible, so entirely insane, so out of reach that these..
are your seven minutes?