The existence of a specie; from flesh to text

Behind the red traffic light, I was looking at the crossing traffic light, the green one. I was anxious to get to wherever I was supposed to. I'd been behind this traffic light hundreds of times, so I could anticipate when it was going to change to yellow and eventually to red, a red that could change my red to a green; a green to go:

- Five come on, four; yellow is hot but I know you can do better, three, almost there; two give it to me baby, one give me the bloody red, 'cause it's time to go.

I pressed the gas pedal. I was looking straight, because I was going straight. The mechanical order of a lawful society ensures that when I get a green light I just have to look straight because it's my way not anyone else's. But for some unknown reason, I got this urge of looking to my left. There it was: a biker coming like a bullet towards me, right towards my face with that perfectly round shaped helmet and the leather suite and the boots with flames of fire painted on them. It was coming to shine on me as if light is coming in slow motions. I could hear the lion like roaring sound rushing to my ears. I had less than no time to think and to decide how to react, physically and emotionally. This was it. This was a moment of truth. I had no other options but to witness that perfect occurrence of the hit, the contact of the closest, fastest and hardest of its kind: The Lethal Collision.

The round casket and the head inside, the leather suite and the body in it and the bike hit the side of my car, turned the glass into beautiful small pieces of sharp edged crystals, then touched my head and splashed it into the air like a watermelon. That was when I stopped being me. I couldn't see or hear or feel anymore. I just had a very short moment of sensing that ending; sensing the finale, the end of a life. That was it. I died. It is the truth. Believe me, I died. You might ask then who is narrating this. I am. I am narrating it, except that this I is in a different form. It is not the usual tall skinny bald man figure that you used to recognize, not anymore, this I is in form of a text, a narration, a voice in your head or an imagination. The I doesn't exist, it can't be touched, it can't be described by some geographical X, Y and Z co-ordinations. This I exists and it can narrate this whole incident or accident and its precedent. It can. It does. It just did and you are reading it, the narration. I am nothing but a narration.