Tales of Vomit and Death

“When in foreign land, you do not fear the dangers of that unknown place, but the fragility of your own existence” -Me

You’re inside the van, puking, praying that your vomit will fit into the tiny plastic bag. You just think of your mom and a highway without curves. You talk to God who barely recognizes you and beg him to make this stop. You’re weak, powerless, and a slave of bodily functions.

“I’m gonna die”, you think while puking gastric acid for the third time. You didn’t eat breakfast because you didn’t want to vomit! The van stops, you sigh even though you’re fully aware that you’re not even halfway through.

You find some superpowers that help you bring your head back up. The highway is crowded, but silent. The mountainous scenario and ensuing fog don’t help you feel calmer. Death is here, you think while picturing a black hooded skeleton with a scythe. It’s not funny to picture death like that, but you can’t escape from that socially constructed image.

People are standing on the highway, looking at the cars, or what used to be cars. Their gaze is morbid, while it’s also in shock. Lives just vanished, I think before looking at the cars. The vibe tells me someone just had a pretty awful death, and I feel sorry, not for him or her, but for myself.

I didn’t think “that could’ve been me” as many people do in these situations, but I did see myself as a fragile human being for the first time. Why did they have to die like that?

A person is still trapped inside the car. I see paramedics trying to save her or just to take the body out. A body, a corpse, a human, a mother, a lover, a husband, a mind, a soul. An entity whose mission was interrupted, or maybe completed.

The highway looks so spooky that you even pretend that the essence of the deceased is stuck in the fog, watching at the seat where just a few minutes ago she was breathing, thinking, planning, listening, fighting, or dreaming.

I say goodbye to her and wish her a happy trip. My hunger for connection is becoming so ridiculous that I even pretend that I talk to dead people. Not sure if she heard me, but if she did, she better tells “God” that I’m not ready to leave.

I wonder if once you face your own fragility and destiny (aka tomb) you start living life fully. Isn’t it funny that when I think of my own fragile existence, I cry?

The van starts to move again, my stomach goes back to the task of making me feel the vomiting reflex. This time, however, I think that people don’t usually die from puking. Do they?*

*I just googled the question, and it said: “People die from all kinds of things.”