Now That It’s Inside Out

Now That It’s Inside Out  /  Joshua Alan Sturgill     

When you die, the total number of hours you’ve spent in hotel rooms appears before you on an antique wooden number-board — like ones you’ve seen hanging in churches, showing the Sunday hymns.  You spent _____ hours driving.  _____ hours asleep.  _____ hours fantasizing about things you wish you had said.  The statistics become embarrassingly explicit as you continue down.  But there’s a catch: you don’t have to read the list at all.  You can choose to ignore it.  No one is there to force you.  No angel or demon will intone the numbers over you in an icy voice of doom.  This is simply one of the first encounters you have with your soul, now that it’s turned inside out, now that the soul is the body of itself.  I’ve been told that some people spend eternity pouring over their list, glancing sideways at other souls, hoping no one sees, alternating between shame and relief at what the number-board reveals.  I suggest that you dismiss the list completely.  Nothing you need to know is there.  Keep your soul’s eyes ahead and go straight on through the Door.

All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2024 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.