I was face down on the floor in my grandfather's office in their house in Baltimore. I think I bled to death. I got up the next morning and went into the bathroom; when I looked in the mirror I had a big purple splotch where blood had pooled in my face. I realized I was dead. My loved ones were devastated but they couldn't see "me" - I can only assume the me that was wandering around was my "soul" or "spirit" or ghost or whatever - so I had no way to tell them that I was really alright, that everything was fine, that my death was only a physical one. They were in such grief, and I was standing there watching them, completely unable to comfort them. As a spirit, I felt the same as I had alive - it seemed no different, only that there was no tangible bodily form.
I wonder if that's what really happens when you die. You're really still there, and you have no way to tell your mourning loved ones that even though they'll miss you, you're really okay, that everything is fine.
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