And I’m gripping the canyon wall, all ice-encrusted and slimy, my spiked gloves digging in about an inch or so, and I see it. It’s across a bit to my right, around a sharp fang-like corner on another precipice, its golden shine a lantern lighting up the fading sunset.

My cheeks turn red, excitement burning in my legs and arms as I hug the steep cliff. I take in a deep breath, exhale a misty ghost, and leap across the canyon fissure to the other side.

I gasp on impact and resist against gravity’s hooks. Despite my efforts I slide downward, my back arched and limbs seething from the strain. Snarling, I pull myself up the rimey rock wall, my face grating painfully against its bitter-cold sandpaper texture.

All I can think about when I pull myself up is that the wind must be playful here, the way it’s dancing with my hair. I’m huffing and panting and a groan of ecstasy and physical shock erupts from my body. I smile openly at the golden egg. With my face washed with sweat, my teeth brushed with hoarfrost, my grimy hands encased in my black gloves, I’m pleasantly presentable. They’re ridiculously warm, those gloves, lined with arctic white rabbit fur. If they weren’t spiked I might wear them everywhere.

“Hello,” I breathe, my voice nearly dysfunctional as my lungs struggle to pipe the air through my throat. I put a gloved hand to my neck and slide the frigid wet spikes across my Adam’s apple, feeling my vocal cords bob as I respire.

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I love being alive. I love it more than anything else. It’s something only a dead person can understand, and I feel myself forgetting all the time. Simple, trivial problems come up and you find yourself caring much more than you should.

When you’re dead, and nothing really matters, there’s a disconnected clarity. And, rapturous, you think you know the secret of life and that if you had another chance you could live life wiser, better, really take advantage of the blessed opportunity. I’ve seen it happen to everybody; no soul would hesitate to make the switch from death’s desolation to hell on Earth in a heartbeat.

But there’s a secret to death, and I keep it with me. Always. It’s never permanent, it’s never peaceful, and it’s always filled with regrets. But death, despite all of its shortfalls, can give a short respite from life, like a comfy afternoon nap. Death is Respite. It’s a rest for the weary. And to all those people who wander in death lonesome and regretting their broken lives - always, without fail, cut too short - I beg them to take advantage of it. I tell everyone to take advantage of death, even when I can’t bring myself to do so.

Because when it comes time for resurrection, you’ll find you haven’t rested enough.