Decay exists as an extant form of life, or so they say. So even my rotting, motionless body must be continuing to live and breathe. Is it bearable? It could be, if I so wished it. Do I wish it? I wish that— 

This, too, shall pass. Your organs degrade inside your body. This too, shall pass. Your heart putrefies in your chest. This too shall pass. Your blood evaporates, seeking new life, like rats abandoning a sinking ship. Thistoo shallpass. Your eyes are the last to go, cruelly, so you are left watching your own decomposition, your own self-cannibalism. Thistooshallpass. You pass. 

Is autocannibalism a consensual process? 

Consent is like tea. It’s not real if given with a gun to your head. But when you gnaw on yourself to survive, who asks permission of whom? Who gives it? 

Is consent tea? Or is it blood on your hands? 

But I digress. The show must go on! The show must go on. The show must. Go on. The show. Must go on. Go on? Go on. 

If you want to know the secret to happiness, it is this: A pause button, for everyone and everything to stop. No, don’t look worried — it’s just for a minute. Just for an hour. Just for a day. To get yourself together. To remember what it is like to breathe and love and have kindness for others. To remember what it feels like to live. 

Decay exists as an extant form of life. So I am existing, surviving, in some sense of the word. But there is more, I know there is more. There must be more.

And that’s why: I hold you close. I whisper to you gently, I love you. I don’t want you to be worried. It’ll be okay. 

Writer | Tapti Sen ’25 |
Editor | Siani Ammons ’27 |