And so another week is past and with it comes a return to a way of life that was quickly diminishing in reality. Adaptability is so deceiving. A species that can close the mind to pain as well as pleasure, can start from dawn as though none else existed. Who am I that I can toss off one life easily, cavalierly falling into step with another, chasing ghosts and dreams simultaneously? Would I give up everything to be warm? I would. The pain of cold lives in my mind, the door that opens and breathes in the morning air, a chill of October reminiscent of November. Long winters looming, with empty beds and firewood to be hauled. Can I remember being a child? I have dreams of fulfillment, of a life rich with love and meaning. Tears well when I wake. Who is this person whose life in sleep is sweeter than the life awake? Oh to reenter one’s dreams, to live there forever. Are there others of my ilk?
What we do is superfluous, destructive to wellbeing, beyond a genetic need of survival, a crime of humanity, a crime of environment, a crime of God. Belief is unnecessary to comprehend the crimes committed. You understand yourself as criminal, conspirator, rapist and raptor, devourer and devoured.
Flesh laid open, a feast fetid with generations of flys, maggots, larvae, bones of the dead reaching to draw you nearer. Bones of the living, rotten flesh, your nightmare borne of reality. Eaten even as you live, segments wasting away before eyes laid hollow from multitudes of lies, deceit, denials.
How do we fill our lives, and as we fill them, do we deny the existence of others unable to participate in the frivolity of our existence? Even this, even now, even I conspire to forget. I forge an existence made of vapors. Thus I render myself untouchable. But I am made of this place and am dependent for my needs. Were I to fly free, where would I go? Were I to be free, what would I do? Were I to understand that I am already free, would anything change? How am I so useless? Is it by comparison? Can I say, “I did not do that, therefore I am nothing?” Or, “Look at his/her accomplishments—they are not mine—I am nothing.” What I have done, what I can do, I see as being selfish and useless, of no consequence to a world peopled with pain, parented by hunger, housed by the homeless. I am the rain that breaks the dam, flooding the lands, being cursed by the righteous and the damned. I am the mid-day sun, parching the field destroying the crops, killing the inhabitants as I consume the earth. Where is my beauty, the smile of my youth? Buried. Buried six feet, with earth and stone upon my grave, unknown in death as in life. Why do you visit him? You have loved him as did I. But I know it is pointless, this ritual of burial, this memorial of headstone. And so what first I did not do out of confusion, I now will not do out of grief and guilt.