Lemon Compost

"If it's true that every seven years each cell in your body dies and is replaced, then I have truly inherited my life from a dead man; and the misdeeds of those times have been forgiven, and are buried with his bones."

-Neil Gaiman

The Sacrificial Death of Twyla

I'd like to introduce you to Twyla. (or at least what used to be)

Over the winter I was victim to a car propelled by a drunk driver traveling the wrong way on a major freeway. While inside my dearest xA.

I had a near death experience and everything. The bright white light, my whole life. It was like a reel of unraveling film composed of every possible memory I've accumulated throughout the abyss of my unconsciousness stroboscopically illuminated.

Ensued boom, crushed metal, gashes and bruises, fractures, immobility and pills prescribed to mask all of these things; I had ample time to reflect and think. I am human as far as I know, so the ponder of why this happened and contemplation of the possiblity of divine purpose initially consumed me, naturally.

I'm sure my survival of this tramatic/dramatic incident has transformed me in some course, but I'll never know how. I'm living this one life. A succession of events and influences, a swirl of emotions and chemical responses. I'll never know how I'd be formed differently if anything in life were different at any juncture or pinnacle moment. There is no what if when passed. It's the past impelling what if, creating ideas and actions.

The impact, a catalyst to remind me I'm alive and how I'm living, may have altered my perception of life. I feel compelled. I feel inspired. I feel driven with more and more passion every passing day.