Choices are difficult. You choose life and passion – of course you do! But there, in the centre, in the shadows and folds, death lurks. Decay of complacency, lack of emotional investment today breeds the boredom of tomorrow, black mold overgrowing your passion, smothering it in a soft, furry blanket, killing it through comfort, illusion of safety, abdication of control… To keep life you have to keep choosing it every day, every hour, every minute. And you do – of course you do – until you tire and let the mold take over.
“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed in seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.“
– J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Elliott
As I walk through the world in the morning, I walk through chores: Brush my teeth, feed my flesh, lift my eyes and observe the world. See the light watch the shadows: frightened and slightly porous It is braving the dark, but the darkness remains unfurled.
Like a puppy, to no avail Light is chasing its own tail. Ceaseless effort – no rest, no sleep Leaves the shadows dark and deep. In the forest, the room, the mind They just move as they hide behind, They never diminish Fade out or finish.
And the dance goes on, like a tide – as it ebbs, it flows. And the mind wanders off, but off what and off when – who knows?
Oh, but time is a funny thing: Lucky – spiral, unlucky – ring; Snake consuming its own tail Has no future, no past, no fail. With no fail comes no gain – no foul. As ouroboros tries to howl It’s unable to rant and rail, Mouth gagged with a scaly tale…
It is time to abandon this train of thought As it leaves us nowhere and profits nought. If I look the look, talk the talk Then I also should walk the walk.
As I wend my way through the virgin wood, All I see are multiple shades of green, All I hear is hue, hue and cry of birds Known just by the sounds – a sight unseen. But my mind gets pulled from the joy sublime Of the sight and sound, the leaves and birds To the stinging nettles that intertwine Unremitting brambles, as sharp as words: “Why the fuck did I wear shorts?”
As I focus on light and sound, I forget to attend to thorns. Joy is found, but also bound By recurrence of cuts and burns. The annoyances and the strain Can be taken away by train.
The train that blurs the near spares far, Serenely cloudscapes through heavens glide. An airplane left antiseptic scar Amid the clouds, stumble on the ride. Landscape renews and we in comfort cruise, But dusty windows engender dusty views.
A patch of lights through clouds gives me joy Untampered, instant and without words. It filters down softly to alloy Itself with shadows in subtle smooth sensations – The joy of pure vision midst the turds Of unremitting complications.
My elasticity declines as I get older – Of skin and time, and arteries, and veins. My hands and feet – they are a little colder Each winter with increase in aches and pains, As well as other relevant increases In colds and flu with snottiness and sneezes. If snake of time contracts then what remains Is an attempt to stretch the space with trains.
Ouroboros of time constricts my breath. As body shrinks my mind expands – and shatters Its dissolution congruent with death But also with infinity of matters. What cannot stretch can break and reassemble. Abandon frame, you all who enter here. Reconstituted, you will still resemble Yourself to others, even those near And dear, them, who try to fix in space Of ageing body time’s dissolving trace.
At the end of the day we arrive. It’s a velvet curtain. The applause increases politely as curtain drops. At the end of the day you are feeling alive and certain. Your heartbeat is apparent to you just before it stops.
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil” (Psalm 23, ESV of the Christian Bible)
Death always rides on the back of the living, unnoticed and unobtrusive, but ever-present. Sometimes we become aware of it through a shiver down the spine and sudden tightness in the chest that catches our breath and holds it. But then we breathe in – a deep breath of relief – and forget; those who don’t become insane or insufferable. We forget until the moment it’s time to turn our back to the world, take our final bow and let our death face it.
Huastec statue from the Tampico region (México), artist unknown; displayed in Louvre Museum, Paris, France
They say your heart aches. Mine doesn’t. My back does. There is an uncomfortable feeling in my spine. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, I just know it is there every second. Tears occasionally leak from my eyes, like pus from a wound. They have no meaning and bring no relief. My mind is desperately searching for something: words, feelings, escape – but there is nothing there. Just a body: stupid, mute, incomprehensible. Experience unmitigated, voiceless scream, feeling that has no name: not sadness, not pain, not anger – nothing eating at my bones, squeezing my tear-ducts, stripping off words, exposing the emptiness inside and out. My thoughts go into familiar grooves and then slide off again – into nothing… I feel old. I feel chilly with understanding that most things just are. Not for something. Not because of something. They are – and there is the end to it. Here. Now. It.
Little yellow flowers grow on the crumbling bricks of a ruined building. They dance in the warm spring air, they bring life to stillness and desolation. Their faint smell mixes with the sour odour of decay and makes it complex: no longer one note of sadness, but a palette to chose from. They bring joy to my eyes. In time, my eyes will turn to dust and – who knows – may be made into bricks for little yellow flowers to grow on. I would be glad to repay the favour.
