I drag my corpse around for most of the day. For some of every day, though, I leave it to rest.
My corpse is heavy, more or less, especially compared to me, my self. Sometimes it’s heavier and sometimes it’s less heavy. Nobody’s corpse is really light.
My corpse is fun, at times. At other times it’s a burden. It depends on where I’m dragging it, and why. I can usually take it where I want to go, but sometimes I can’t. Or I think I can’t (which often means that I can’t).
I share my corpse with others sometimes. Other people can enjoy it, too—but only from the outside in. I’m the only one who enjoys my corpse from the inside out.
My corpse is mine, for now, until I turn it back in…to the dirt and water from which it came. What happens to it after that is not up to me, nor does it matter to me. My corpse is only mine while I possess it.
Possession, they say, is nine-tenths of the law. What is to own but to have, and to use as you wish? And so I own my corpse, until it wears out. Then I return it.
Sometimes my corpse takes a beating and I have to drag it to safety, to rest. A corpse has only so much energy, and it needs to be recharged sometimes. I can recharge it alone pretty well.
I also recharge it by putting fuel into it. A corpse is like a rechargeable battery that can be used, depleted, recharged, and eventually discharged completely. No amount of fuel can prevent this depletion, and giving the corpse too much fuel will only wear it out faster.
My corpse likes to play with other corpses—or, rather, I like to take my corpse to play with others, through their corpses. A corpse is good for playing, but only for so long. Eventually it must be dragged back to recharge, refuel, or just be by itself.
I try to make my corpse more like me. Making it exactly like me isn’t possible, but through that effort I can improve my corpse so it does even more of what I like. It doesn’t mold as easy as the clay that it resembles, though.
My corpse is imperfect, and I accept its imperfection. To expect perfection from a corpse is to create disappointment. When it comes to my corpse, I aim for progress and improvement instead of some kind of “end” result.
Without me, my corpse would be nothing. Without my corpse, I would be corpse-less.
My corpse likes coffee and sugar and lots of other things that look, sound, feel, smell, and taste good. Some of them I like, and others I try to keep my corpse from wanting. Sometimes it’s better to allow than to resist, and other times it’s better just to keep my corpse away from those things.
My corpse is as fresh as I keep it. If I let it go, or forget to freshen it, it will break down and even start to rot—maybe while I’m using it. I won’t use it forever, but I do like to care for it while it’s still usable.
My corpse isn’t me, but it resembles me; it’s an image of me. To others who can’t see me through my corpse (and through their own corpses), I’m invisible. My corpse is just the squishy shell I reside within.
Or does my corpse reside in me?