There is that moment when.
It may happen violently, or in the quiet solitude of your bedroom slumber when you find you don’t have power or breath to yell for help. The moon lingers in the dark sky outside the window, the last image your setting life witnesses before the…final…heartbeat.
That moment when you cross the line.
In all death, there is that moment. It is brief, in some case, incomprehensibly brief, even in the quantum sense. It is gone as quickly as it began from the mortal perspective. There is that moment when your life crosses the bridge into death, the moment that biological physics still prop up the incongruousness of your physical habitat before it can know that the forces residing are gone and before it can dutifully relinquish hold of those forces.
It’s the moment when.
The structural impudence of your physical body obeys gravity and mechanics and the flickering life signal, ebbing, dying, has left the body faster than it can collapse. This is the moment when.
That moment is a fraction of a blink, of a heartbeat. It’s the moment life leaves your body, but your plodding, physical form is unable to keep pace with the speed of light, the speed of life.
It’s that moment two divergent paths of reality exiting your life split and run closely, but not quite, parallel, so that their effects still weakly interact, similar to how the sound of a distant explosion trails weakly on the heels of the visible white ignition which reached you moments before.
It’s that moment before your body joins the frozen lands of mortality, your soulless shell.
It’s that zombie, fugue moment, the fleeting moment it takes your dead body to be dead.
That zombie moment.