this morning, i was in love with death, she who is so beautifully robed in liberation from shame and fear and the ilk. i moved through the day with ease, to reject the mindless scrolling, to do whatever i want, pursue my dreams, be myself, who cares? death does not care, and i was in love with death.
a quirk of the human condition is conditioning. i encountered a moment of human interaction, and became overwhelmed with revulsion. i was nauseated, my eyes rolling so far back into my head i could see the shiny, pulsating mountains of squiggly brain goo. i could barely focus, my thoughts piling up, i could see, oh so clearly it was blinding, the masks. look! awesome —you’re so amazing (painfully so, like eating a spoonful of raw sugar) —i can make sure this gets done (because my worth, my self and societal respect, my precious career to gather that fake thing we call money) sorry (nothing to be sorry for or, and, they’re not sorry) i am professional so and so (again respect, importance, immunity, influence, a way to pass life by) ha ha ha (nothing is funny)
my eyes were so wide that i forgot to pick up my mask when it was my turn. my self came out. my boredom. my truth in knowing that this does not matter. i could not be bothered to pay enough attention to dress my words in the customary rituals and banners and medals and accolades so that it convinces the superficials in me, and them, that it is true, important, that i care, and that what i am saying matters. i contribute to ‘progress’, in this mirage. you know, the kind that gets articles and applause, that makes us feel good about the potential of humanity for an hour or even a day. the kind that we talk about at dinner to convince the youth to join us in this meaningless way of life. the kind that pulls the corners of our mouth to the side as far as possible, where we squint our eyes so one cannot see the truth within them, when we feel relief we can let our mouth corners come back to our selves once the mask is no longer needed.
i forgot to pick up my mask and i felt anger. shame. blame. after all, it’s their fault i am living a meaningless life, pining after death yet chained to the human condition that requires food and shelter and living in a world governed by fake money to get those things. catch 22? it’s their fault i find no joy, no learning, no care in this daily grind. it’s their fault for being so in love with their masks that they cannot put them down to see me. it’s all their fault.
mostly, it is the collective’s fault. it is our own fault we chain ourselves to money. that we do not give ourselves peace by refusing to participate in the cycle. that the world, and society would fall apart, there would be no food, no medicine, no services. the disabled would fall to the wayside, the children would not learn, the pained and closed souls would terrorize our communities —these are the stories we speak. why can’t they see, i say?
i took a shower, and painted. i called to death, please, come sit with me. listen to me. massage my body, comfort my soul. hear me cry and pout and moan and groan. why do you elude me so? i love you. i want you, is the truth.
this morning, i wanted death. she who is so beautifully robed in liberation.
