The tension was killing him. The accumulation of all his many failures in both business and personal relations. The loneliness of no longer having familiarity with anyone expressing unsolicited affection or concern. No man may have been an island but he had failed to get a drink of water from Diogenes’ cup. Despite all he felt inside, it was not the human race who had failed but his own misapplied nature. Tomorrow would be the same because of it. And all the earthly tomorrows that would come to pass thereafter. Whether he died physically or in the sense of the capacity of any further human emotion. Death of his physical being had awakened him for three nights straight. A curious phenomena wherein he would awake with his heart unexpectedly racing. The context of an active dream state completely unconnected with this phenomena. The arrow placed within the fact of a failing heart. To taste the last whiff of life let me laugh my last breath.
In a nut shell, I had had it. What commonality did I possess with the rest of humanity. The holy grail had orbited by out of reach long ago. The estrogen fantasies of prince charming had found me wholly indifferent and thus wanting. The universe would be there int he morning even if I was not longer in material form. This lurking center around ‘I’ was becoming tedious. If I could filed such a thing as want then it was to take on the mysteries of the great beyond full force without regret. The sum of earthly material existence is triviality to that which is fleeting and impressed merely within the instant. We fade at best into well-preserved dead flowers so faint in smell only to suggest what was lost to the leaky sieve of memory of what might come that we fear might replace it. Thus existence if defiled. For one merely becomes a space that some other anonymous stranger will all too soon come to inhabit. Acceptance is a locomotive ride off a cliff.
Still there is the impulse to save one’s self if for nothing else then a chance at the impossible. But since that can only exist in the mind the exercise becomes a conundrum. Pain is displeasure and it is coming along with that animal fear of the unknown. This the true matrix of movie fame. That mystery of beginning and fear of the loss of the opportunity to be appreciated in a way that it never can. But then all of this is just the same gargantuan bullshit that would be expected of one whose head is in the noose of the Owl Creek experience. The thought of a performance as a flailing apprentice corpse locked in the last stages of delirium not being appetizing to any but the most perverse of palates. It is an absurdity that justifys the quickest of exit offstage into anonymity of yesteryear and a quick forget.