Am I awake now? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. There have been times where I've fallen asleep and immediately dreamed of being awake and active. Not that it really makes much of a difference, but I find some entertainment in keeping track of the times I pass out. It's not much, but beggars can't be choosers.
With all the effort I can muster, I manage to wiggle my toes a bit. While I can no longer feel them, I know they're moving by the sound of bone scraping against cheap wood. That's all the proof I need to know that I am in fact awake. In my dreams I am fully capable of controlling my appendages, though my imagination still limits me to being in the same cramped location. It's been so long since I've woken up in here that I can't comprehend being anywhere else.
I don't know exactly how long I've been in here. I remember keeping track of it for a time, though that quickly became an exercise in tedium. Plus, it's not like the information would benefit me at all. I've long since dropped any delusions of being rescued, so my primary focus is keeping boredom at bay. One would assume that being confined to a tiny box with barely any leg room would make such a thing difficult, but they'd be wrong. While my current settings have quite a lot to be desired, I find that it provides the perfect environment for me to think, and really, thinking is all I can do at this point.
My muscles have all but rotted away at this point so physical activity, even if desirable, is nothing more than a pipe dream. Do I miss having control over my body? Sometimes. I am but a husk of decayed flesh and broken bones, my nervous system all but non existent and my organs nothing more than useless sacks of blood and tissue. Yet I've made peace with it.
Oh sure, there was a time when I was in a state of utter anguish from my situation. I remember desperately calling out for help, whittling my fingers down to the bone as I tried in vain to claw my way out of the wooden box I had been buried in. Some time after that, my body began to rot away. It wasn't so bad at first, but then I found myself staining to move parts of my body. It wasn't long before the simple act of moving my fingers took a great deal of concentration. The loss of my physical agency deeply disturbed me, but what really sent me into despair was the realization of my own death.
I don't know what kind of man I was before my death. My memories only extend to my time here inside the box. That said, can vaguely remember little tidbits of what I believed in. I was never a man of faith, that much I'm certain of. I believed in a higher being, but never found comfort in faith. Was that, I wondered, why I'm here? Am I being punished for my wrongdoings? Is this my Hell? Or is this just what happens when we die? For some time I pondered over these questions and eventually, I came to the most sensible conclusion.
There are no answers. I've had some time to mull it over and this is what I have concluded. This isn't some kind of obscure punishment by a higher power, it's simply an aspect of life. The moment we are born, we begin to die and when we die, we rot. And that's all that happens. We don't ascend to a high plane of existence, we don't simply cease to be, we rot. And I see nothing wrong with it. Granted, I'm probably not the best person to speak to on the matter. I've been here so long that I've counted to infinity at least three times out of boredom, but there's a genuine comfort I feel in the lost of my agency. Hardship, strife, and the burden of free will are things of the past. All that's left are me and my thoughts. In that respect, I have more freedom than any living person. I feeling nothing but pity for them. To bog yourself down with concepts like choice and desire is to rob yourself of absolute peace of mind.
I'm sure there are some who would disagree with that notion, but it doesn't matter. Once they're dead and rotting in the ground, they'll come to see things as they really are. Hopefully it takes them less time than it took me.