I’m not alive in the strictest sense of the word (and world).
I’m not alive in the sense that a dog or lion (even in a zoo) is alive.
I’m not sure how to explain the mechanics of why I am not alive.
This could be a problem.
Here are some guesses:
I’m not alive in that every morning I take the whole world
and bash it against my skin until I’m purple, or even worse
I just wake up that way, and have nothing to say that day.
I’m not alive in that most of who and what I am is already
safely buried under an abandoned candle factory.
I’m not alive in that I never taste my soup.
I’m not alive in that, ah forget it.