So I ask myself, what can I do to pick up where they left off? What pieces of myself do I reclaim so that I no longer lay scattered across the landscape, lost in puzzles of my own divisiveness? When will I stop being a victim of my grandparents surviving the Nazi wars in Germany, or their long forgotten, bad habits? How do I chain down my own negative behaviors while setting myself free to simply be the Greatness we all harbor, now, before I am dead? How do I get out of my fucking head?
Have you ever wondered about when you are going to die? Or how? I haven’t much thought of it myself. I have avoided using death as a strategy to motivate me in a new direction while dancing to some old tune. I just know it will come. I think most people are sleep walking through life anyway, and I wonder is it worth the twisting and screaming to be heard by them? And if so, so what? Will they mute the TV long enough to notice they should just turn it off? I can’t stand going over to people’s houses and the TV is just ON. Blaring to an empty audience, an empty room, an empty mind. Or it is blatantly booming news of non-events while hanging above empty lounge chairs on the patio, near the empty pool. This point begs another question to be asked; Why do people have things that they don’t use? What is the point? So that when they are on their death bed, they can think about the big empty home they lived in with Scotchguard’s spray-on plastic film protecting the unused couches. Would they reminisce about the good times they spent getting drunk on their now empty bar stools that sit submerged beneath the pools surface where the bartender is backed by a waterfall that leads to a grotto where there is a big ultra private Jacuzzi hiding back there?
Do you know what the wealthiest man in the world said when he died? ‘I’d gladly give up all my millions for one experience of marital happiness.’ J. Paul Getty walked down the aisle FIVE times. But when he was alive, he didn’t give his marriage the time of day whilst he held the ticking clock in his hands. How many more good friends have to die before I pick up my grandfathers pocket watch and smash it to pieces? What is this genetic pause button that I have hit? Where does all this hesitation come from? I have not been tortured in a Nazi camp or ever starved.
What ever am I waiting for? Perhaps I am waiting to die…