Curtains

“Your death will come on an ordinary day, in the middle of unfinished plans, and the world will continue on without you.”
~ N.R. Hart

The world continued on without me long ago, a kind of living death, leaving me in this small apartment with a faulty body and a thousand old books that I should have read many years ago.

I have visitors, though, and one in particular is very pretty. Keeps me going for now, along with some great music, an occasional walk on the beach—hand in hand—and a delicious meal once in a while, with the pretty girl of course.

Death won’t be an ordinary day for me. Dying is not an annual event, nor does it occur on the same day, at the same hour, every week in perpetuity.

My death will be the closing act, when the curtains close for the first and last time, following a lifetime of being in this place, during these years, and in these circumstances, with all the people whom I’ve known and not known, the characters who affected my life in some way, deliberately or unknowingly.

As for my unfinished plans, they will be finished as they are and remain that way, just like Kafka’s half written stories, unless someone or something decides to unfinish them, for reasons eternally unknown to me, as I will no longer exist in this form, as the person I am now.

Games at Dawn

She smiles at my gamesmanship, all the while plotting my defeat in the rising light of dawn. Two beautiful smiles upon me. Win or lose, I win.

Dissolution

“You think it will never happen to you, that it cannot happen to you, that you are the only person in the world to whom none of these things will ever happen, and then, one by one, they all begin to happen to you, in the same way they happen to everyone else.”
~ Paul Auster

By middle age, a myriad of wounds had accumulated, one on top of another; the sheer force of their emotional weight clarifying my predicament, that no matter what I do or where I go, the “road of dissolution” is beneath my proverbial feet, poking holes in my existence; an inexorable progression of decline, moving me forward like a conveyor belt, from cradle to grave.

There was and is no turning back, no stop button on this road, no return to the garden of blissful ignorance—AKA childhood—despite my resistance and great protest. The long, painful takedown being an incurable, terminal condition of existence, shared by all of humanity.

Oh yes, the demons of Thanatos are lurking from beginning to end, lining our roads with their pitchforks, poking holes at will; tasked with disassembling and removing the many pieces of human lifetimes.

If I’d avoided my road for a time, then it was only through the wishful illusion of invincibility and immortality, set against the background of my all too human fate: the slow dissolution of body, mind, and spirit.

Butterflies and red flags

“When all you know is fight or flight, red flags and butterflies all feel the same.”
~ Cindy Cherie

The more you desire someone, the more you fear being ruined or destroyed by your vulnerabilities to them. Your early butterflies, slowly but insidiously, transforming into red flags. In the heat of your desire and need, your fear becomes exaggerated; and you make the decision to either fight the invisible enemies within, take flight from them, or do both. The irony being that either way, the fight or flight pushes away what you wanted or thought you needed, your fear being the real enemy.

Alternative version: Free verse

The object of desire is your greatest vulnerability; the path to your elusive joy or inevitable ruin: recycled and reimagined.

Early butterflies—slowly but insidiously—transform into the red flags of paranoia. The fear of loss and humiliation enclosing you like a vice grip.

In the heat of desire and neediness, you fight or take flight from the invisible enemies within: the delusions of demons who would steal your joy or facilitate your shame. And this will assuredly keep you separated from your object of desire; your fear and paranoia being the most crafty of enemies.

Screams in the night

It keeps me awake some nights, a chorus of screams, pitching up and down. It is not heard, but rather felt as a dreadful depression of the gut, weighed down upon by the memories of abruptly terminated pasts, the cries of a dying present, and an infinity of aborted futures. All of this accumulated and gathered upon me within the night, packed into a chorus of silent screams: An endless, collective reverberation of all that happened and never happened; paths taken and not taken; and my fate having been indifferent to it all, as if nothing ever mattered, despite what I’d once wished for, had hoped for, prayed for, and strived for.

Note of hope:

I was once told that my feelings of distress is a form of depression known as Weltschmerz, or world-weariness, meaning that my vision of how things should or could be, is not compatible with reality. However, it seems to me that reality always defies us on some level, shaping and reshaping itself to avoid the complete fulfillment of our needs, wants, desires, and idealistic visions.

Consider the possibility of this defiance being a kind of soul moving resistance. One that challenges us to continue evolving and reaching for something better, higher, or more humane, rather than it being a force of malicious intent, or an obstacle course of random obstructions.