How was your day?
It brought me a little closer to death, was made of moments I’ve already forgotten.
Why do you live like this?
Every day is a segue way one nothing to another. My awareness is a hiccup, a burp, a bit of air passing through an obstructed tube.
Why choose life over death?
Hope and fear bundled together keep a dwindling flame alive. I’ve hacked away at my capacity to care, and I’ve failed to kill it. Something in me wants life, the ongoing, the eternal. A little fleck of forever stuck in the center of disintegration.
Life is what you make of it
True, even as we are what life makes of us. We are worked on and worked over by unseen hands, airbrushed into existence. Shaped clay in an abandoned potter’s home.
A modern person thinks of tragedy as something bad that happens, often to large groups of people all at once. But tragedy is more subtle than that. Tragedy is the structure of human life. It’s the knowledge of death. It’s the fatal recognition of the self as mortal.
Useless knowledge of the end, of the end which can’t be avoided.
But you like thinking about this; You enjoy contemplating your own disappearance
You’re probably right. I can always steal a little pleasure from a bleak meditation. A grim, comic spirit keeps me animated.
There is something seductive about the idea of disappearance. Funerals, commemorations, preservation, all unsettle me. Please don’t gather around my husk and cry for hours. I want to slip away without anyone even realizing I’ve left. Keep the party going and don’t worry about where I’ve gone. Don’t miss me; there’s plenty of beer and you’ll be leaving soon, too.