Isaac Marion is an American writer. He is best known as the best-selling author of the "zombie romance" novel Warm Bodies.
My friend "M" says the irony of being a zombie is that everything is funny, but you can't smile, because your lips have rotted off.
Maybe this is why I sleep only a few hours a month. I don't want to die again. This has become clearer and clearer to me recently, a desire so sharp and focused I can hardly believe it's mine: I don't want to die. I don't want to disappear. I want to stay.
I know I'm not going to say good-bye. And if these staggering refugees want to help, if they think they see something bigger here than a boy chasing a girl, then they can help, and we'll see what happens when we say yes while the rigor mortis world screams no.
Enough white lies can scorch the earth black.
But we don’t remember those lives. We can’t read our diaries. ’ ‘It doesn’t matter. We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next. ’ ‘But can we choose that?’ ‘I don’t know. ’ ‘We’re Dead. Can we really choose anything?’ ‘Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes. My friends have to keep reminding me how crazy my life has become, and then it hits me fresh and I just slap my forehead and think, "Wait, what. . . ?"
Life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present, and future all at once.
She hugs me. It's tentative at first, a little scared, and yes, a little repulsed, but then she melts into it. She rests her head against my cold neck and embraces me. Unable to believer what's happening, I put my arm around her and just hold her. I almost swear I can feel my heart thumping. But it must just be hers, pressed tightly against my chest.
There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can't cross it. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.
We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
She is everything. And if she is everything, maybe that's answer enough.
We're fumbling in the dark, but at least we're in motion.
I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
My "heart". Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls. My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the center of my chest and seep out of there, diluted and faint, but real.
I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.