I often feel that I’m dying. Killing myself with disease. Killing myself via the activities of my “mind.” Killing myself with alcohol. Killing myself by over-extension, -exertion, lack of self-regard. Worry. Anxiety. Perfectionism. Wishes. Desires. Dying from the absence of sex (and yet orgasm is also a breathless ‘little death’). Dying from lack of joy. Dying of disuse, depletion, or disregard. Dying of my own engulfing life.
Which only emphasizes the insistent FACT. One thing we know, perhaps the ONLY certainty we’ve understood in the thousands or millions or billions of years we’ve been species-al (spec-ial) and aware of such information…is that we are dying. Constantly. Continuously. Unstoppably. Irrefutably and inescapably. Inevitably.
Whether we do it to ourselves – amplify or expedite its course – or are at the mercies and whims of some enormous cosmic complex entanglement; whether our cells turn against “us,” or we turn our “selves” against our cells; excruciating or peaceful, ecstatic or terrifying – WE DIE. ARE DYING. WILL DIE.
For some, this undeniable evidence and unstoppable knowledge instigates a kind of “dead-already” worldview or perspective…a nihilism for some. A not-ness. A foregoing of LIVING, a preemptive attack, or some strange passion of alignment with the TRUTH – some subversion of the FACT (at the same time true, and as certain) – that a DYING thing MUST be LIVING.
An “it doesn’t matter.” Usually tacked on with an “ultimately.” Meaninglessness. Pointlessness. Purposelessness. Something some supposed “scientist” (devoted to “objective” observable “truths”) like a psychologist, biologist or physicist; doctor or therapist or mathematician – might call “depression,” “skepticism,” “cynicism,” – when in FACT it is adherence to one of the ONLY FACTs we’ve described or descried that has held TRUE while all of our tools, technologies, expansions of knowledges and theories, inventions, medicines and so on carry on their wars against it. A veritable CERTAINTY (indeed, perhaps the only occurrence in which a human being accords with reality).
DYING. From there – who knows? “At one’s own hand/operations” or “at the mercy of” environments, situations, circumstances, world… who knows? No one. Uncertainty. The process of being-alive to being-dead is fraught with everything else we are able to imagine. And almost entirely UNCERTAIN.
It happens. Living. Then Dead. Each one. Every one. “Me,” “You,” “I’s,” “They’s,” “We’s,” “Those” and “These.” Whatever begins…ends (in some form). Whatever emerges, converges and devolves. Whatever occurs…deceases. Ceases “to Be.”
And so what do we do…what do “I” do…with this LIVING? In full awareness of the synonymity – LIVING/DYING – why is the awareness of dying and depletion of a potency that oft outstrips its necessary , indeed indubitable counterfactual? LIVING. LIVING. LIVING…
Who now, what now, where and for why?
Wanderings & observations
Understanding ourselves and the world we live in.
-the near-unconsciousness of possible meanings -
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Information hygiene for the Covid-19 infodemic
Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar. Wayfarer, there is no way. You make a way as you go. (Antonio Machado)
all that inspires, shocks and makes me purr
Freyja Howls is a writer, performer and activist who would have been a style icon and comedian a century ago.