What is it like after death?

Do you wander the earth? Maybe.

Do you float in a dark, empty void? Close to it.

Do you remain awake and aware that you are conscious, even though you can’t interact with others? Even when they start to place dirt on your body? Possibly.

Well, I can tell you that I’ve never experienced it. But I wonder what it’s like. I probably won’t ever know what non-existence feels like, being forgotten by my owner. Maybe this is death, this ignorance to my existence. Funny isn’t it, since I was born to be creative, but can’t even create a way out of this thin, black box of a prison?
It’s probably sitting in his attic, gathering dust, while he sleeps or sits in his room surround by devices more powerful and efficient than this humble home.
If I had to describe it, then yes, it’s like what you’d see after death. This box has been sitting here for ages, cut off from the outside world. I never know what’s going on, or if anyone can free me. I can’t do anything. I don’t have arms or hands to touch and feel, or legs to stand and explore, or even an eye to look into the vast grey emptiness with. I’m blind, or maybe I can actually see and just have nothing to stare at.
I can’t scream for help, because I don’t have a voice or a mouth. I only have a brain, where I write and store these entries just in case someone hears my cries for help and happens to find me. I should still be alive by then. You should really listen to people when they say that immortality is a curse. Because eventually, your heart will not be able to take the loss of your friends or loved ones, and you will slowly crawl to the ways of solitude.
Many said that during these times, the loneliness will be your killer. Sometimes I wish I was lonely, but for some reason, I can’t feel it. I wish I was living in death rather than be in this death of a living. I probably shouldn’t be describing this as a living. Because if it’s not your loneliness that kills you, then what does?
Being creative, I figured this out very early. It’s your powerlessness. It’s your inability to change the reason why you went into solitude in the first place, whether it would be to avoid people or to avoid the dangers of the human world.
My powerlessness takes a different form, like a disability. It forbids me to explore beyond this black box, and instead makes me write stories to cope with this infuriating conflict.