Vivisection
Sean Moore
Underneath the skin lies sinew and muscle; underneath that lies ligament and bone. But what beneath that, but the foundations of man? Are we built on bedrock or do we sit atop shifting sands?
What does the mortician feel, in that moment?
The body lying cold on the slab, the soul long departed. What does he feel, as the blood flows away, flows downstream, into the drain. As the color drains away, the cheeks no longer flush. As the physicality of the body reflects the knowledge of the mind: that life, like every other fluid, only flows down hill, and can never be recovered.
Does he feel, as I would, the pang of his own mortality? Does he wonder if underneath those heavy eyelids his own empty eyes may soon be hidden away? Does he embrace life all the more as he watches it, every day, drain away?
I wonder just how powerfully he feels himself in that moment. I wonder what comes alive in him. I wonder if that moment engulfs him in its throes and when he emerges, he is momentarily made again.
I wonder if he feels profoundly alive, surrounded by the dead.
I don’t cohabit with the dead – not, at least the kind of dead bound for the morgues and funeral homes; rather I watch the transformation occur in vivisection. I watch not the draining of blood, drawn for those who no longer need it, who will not miss it, but rather the draining of youth, drained away willingly, poured out and spilled with fervor, with delight even. I see the floor slick with it, I see the color draining from ten thousand graven faces, and I cannot but think that all too soon we will need it, all too soon they will miss it. But youth, just like life, just like all fluids, only flows downhill, and will never return.
Do they not feel it too? Do they not feel with every pull of the bottle, with every head back swallow, the ethanol solvate their source of energy, their very spring of life? Do they not feel it drain away, drain out with every sip, expelled out with every heave, every wretch of the diaphragm as the body helplessly rejects the poison out inside it?
Do they not see what could be built? Do they not see what the world could be made into? There are great works in the world to perform, great stories to tell, but they’ll not be found in the dank corners of a college town bar.
If only they felt as I felt, this crushing sadness, this terrible pity. Not for them, nor for me; they and I chose this fate, now committed to the outcome no matter the consequences. No, I pity a future that could've been, but now never will be. I feel this uncontrollable sadness has passed up on spending their best years making a difference and instead chosen to get their dicks hard and their memories blanked, then cherish their accomplishment the following morning.
How can you not feel hopeless against this backdrop? Even now, just the thought of it, my heart clenches, my throat closes shit and I'm nearly consumed with overwhelming anxiety. I can't bear to watch, I can't bear to continue believing that it doesn't have to be this way.
Is the only way out to drain myself dry? Is there no other place to go but down the drain? Is the only way to un-see to go blind and imbibe?
If only I saw, if only they saw, if only we all saw that what we’re looking for cannot be found in the bottom of a bottle. It must be found within us, and brought into the light, for everyone to see: our greatest failures, and hidden beneath them our even greater successes, unlocked by the hard work of youthfulness.
This is what I see in the blank stares of a Saturday night escapade. This is what I feel, far worse than any hangover, in the heartache, two rounds deep: that we go not out of enjoyment, but instead we go to forget all the good we could do.
We go to forget ourselves.
I wake up every morning and avoid the mirror for as long as I can, because what stares back forever haunts me, my own vivisection, laid bare. I watch the color drain, day after day, not given willingly, but rather squandered, as payment for sloth and recreation. And every day I grow more resentful, more wistful that I could have back the day. But youth, just like life, just like all fluids, only flows downhill, and will never return.
If, when I grow old, I look back and regret that I had spent more time in recreation, I shall live with it, content that what I did instead will be made worthwhile. But I cannot bear to think that instead in many years’ time, that I will look back and wish that I had spent more time in meaning, and not lived a life of leisure.
And what then will I do, but wait for my eyelids to grow heavy, and my body to fail, as my will did so many years before. As my youth did so many years before.