I feel like I’m dead. Like I’ve died and now I am a ghost, haunting my former life.

My house is my own mausoleum, complete with grave goods, like Tut’s tomb. I have all I need for this, my afterlife. Winter hats, summer hats, paintings, cookbooks, vintage table linens, lots of yoga gear, a really nice camera. Beautiful things thoughtfully curated for my afterlife. Friends and family come to visit my mausoleum, visit me in it. I make them tea with the bone china set, also part of the Afterlife Collection.

Do I sound like a morbid teenager? Probably, but none of this feels morbid, just peculiar. Without feeling in any way morose, I do feel like I’m dead. It’s not upsetting or disturbing. It’s weird and somewhat liberating. All those aspirations, tensions, desires, personal narratives…completed. I’ve come to the end of that book, and closed it. All I feel is admiration for the protagonist and the author. What a spectacular adventure. I was engrossed in the story, it was that good. At times it took my breath away, and there was never a dull moment. Well done!

So, what does one do in one’s afterlife?