A part.

I felt so alone.

I began to veer from the supposedly planned route; directions a variant to everyone else, and then the distance swelled.
The edge became apparent, and sharper still. Their eyes shadowed: they had already granted me my 'goodbye'. I had already died and yet my senses were entirely acute; a sensation of non-belonging to a world of life - who would immerse themselves in my past, in this present? Who had ever immersed themselves in the stench and filth of the truth? It seemed necessary that now, now when I needed people the most, that they would disperse like the seeds of a dandelion kicked joyfully by children in the warmth of prepubescent summer fields, under the watch of protective and vigilant parents - or so the scene would appear to portray. I felt like those seeds, caught in updraft, and painfully powerless. I ascended with others, but fell sooner than my companions.

Near death experiences had numbed a sense of living: of being. Had I actually been dead for weeks, months, years, decades? Was I a slowly decaying thought in the minds of those who once loved me? These thoughts blurred, and I had no real moment of thought; a perpetual existence until I thought no more. Yet, I thought again and again. When would this thinking cease?