It’s the 7th of October for the third time! There are certain dates that stick with you in life. The basics are the date of your birth, the date of your graduation, the date of your wedding. And for those who want to be remember but are no longer around to do so, the date/hour/minute/second of your last breath. As I writes this the minutes tick down to a recollection of a fatal event that has stayed with me now for two years that seem more like centuries. There is no more lucid moment in life when you are their to witness the absolute last breath of someone.That point in their existence when the clock stops forever. That instant when someone you saw as a pillar simply evaporates from the room and the physical manifestation becomes an inert piece of un-moldable clay. How everything within you both screams with impotent fury while sinking into the whistling wind in an endless tumble into the abyss of an undeniable realization that evaporates every fantasy that you have ever had about life. It is a level of dark exhilaration bringing no ecstasy only a painful confusion about what for you as a living entity now is ahead. A new form of existence empty of further reach into the once palpable past tense. Your sense of the world accelerating inevitably towards a present tense surety of that all destiny is insecure. Now that you are really alone. A massive emotional burning cavity that like any massive sinkhole cannot be filled but must be circumnavigated from this point forwards. Scar tissue like burning asphalt. The only reliable balm a strange sense of absented memory about what was once both banal and mundane. A medicinal vacancy bereft of that former sensations of immediacy of what that person meant to you. You hide in your shell feeling the turbulence of everything external tumbling about around you. Now you know just how small and fragile and inconsequential you really are.
The fiction of your importance eliminated like a road sign past many minutes ago. The collection of physical possession dating from that former time simply a cocoon. The mounting dust growing upon them being angry waves from a darkened unseen ocean of fury witnessed by phantom ‘no one’s’ at the edge of a boundless universe of unstirrable ether. It stands as a mirror that can no longer support a viable image but simply a bulwark. You could walk out of the door tomorrow much as you contemplated when you were six or seven in some long lost temperamental tif over too early a bedtime. But you find that you are already gone from the premises. The factor of night collapsing you appreciation of the world once considered familiar to a barrier of wood and steel just few centimeters out of reach all around you. You try to breath but find your breath cut short because you find yourself in a coffin. A state of being demanding that you abandon your former pretense of identity and seek the animal solace of anything that will obliterate that unwanted awareness. The frozen breath of the dead is not about a feeling a physical sensation of coldness but of being put into abeyance stopped short in the human abstract of time. You are now a prisoner of the present serving a life term without possibility of parole. Your binding shackles invisible and never to be removed with no time off for trying to restart who you once thought you were.
Fiction beyond a momentary diversion of exercising an ability to conjure words is like a early morning fog that burns off with the light of each passage day. You get up in the morning and the animal upon whose back you ride pulls you along with is routine demands. The sense of the world around you now a great burden that needs to be satiated with the fiction of your active participation. You go through the motions and leave it at that. You can care now but it seems to always default to that of yourself. An entity rising and falling with the nightly tides arms growing weary of a futile struggle. “Who cares!“, your present mantra. The canned music from the ongoing movie that you are within swells at that expected point that you realize has absolutely no content but simply relies on your own indoctrination of so many sequels previously endured to bring its ‘deadness’ life.This world once considered wonderful a place of cardboard placards standing in for supporting characters offering the mute enjoyment of life as purloined from mostly recycled bygone commercial plugs. You could pretend that nothing has happened with your bedroom door closed to the blathering TV left on within next room. That it was just some all too terrible morose muse that your current palpable awareness of a former routine can dispel. Simply a bad dream. But then you open the door and walk out to find your domicile empty. That last and final breath re-imagined and the millennium of silence that has transpired in between. And now what?