As for immortality…
As with childbirth, it is laborious to bring thoughts to life. Often they say that good company builds character, but it is in being alone that I find my face in a form unstirred by laughter, untouched by tears, unscathed by frown or fist. The din of conversation and the steady throb of hope, of anticipation give way to trickling thoughts flowing too long unheard into the murkiness of memory. It is then that from the ooze of my subconscious morph winged fears and slithering echoes of cautionary tales, marching my way, arms out — screeching for a dance at the center of my mind. So begins genesis.
The creator rested, but the created declares: “There is no rest for me. Not in this life, perhaps in the next.” If that be true, what then is the fate of a lot born and living in sin? Does eternal repose dangle damnation — or rest — for one battered and bleeding with each passing breath? Will that deep, deep sleep blanket peace over closed eyes that see storms where there used to be dreams? Billions die to birth on a melting rock orbiting a burning star — a voyage without origin or destination, across the sea of space to the ebb and flow of a living death.
One word sums up existence. Dusty.
Why then do we, with the certainty of leaving behind all that we have found and made, loved and made love to, still weep when they pass? Do we all not come to pass? Do we rage too much at the dying light for beings birthed blind? Kicking and screaming, we descend into the void that once contained us whole — that singing siren in our soul calling us on lonesome, sad nights to be united in nothingness once again. Are we too fast for a race at whose end stands sickled Thanatos? A marathon, unlike our fickle and transient intimacies, at the end of which you are sure to finish alone. Cold. A finish line whose reward is decay instead of dopamine.
